The King of the Catacombs
by Darth Gilthoron
Summary: Darkness stirs beneath the Opera Populaire... The Phantom finds himself a hunted man, but he will never give up his dominion to the unknown foe lurking in the shadows, let alone the woman he loves, and he is quite ready to wallow in blood once again...
1. THE KING OF THE CATACOMBS

**THE KING OF THE CATACOMBS  
**by  
Darth Gilthoron

Book One: The Hope of the Lost Ones  
Book Two: The Veil of Concealment  
Book Three: The Ashes of Glory  
Book Four: The Threads of Darkness  
Book Five: The Mists of Time  
Book Six: The Touch of Light  
Book Seven: The Toll of Death  
Book Eight: The Banner of Vengeance  
Book Nine: The Breath of Evil  
Book Ten: The Fate of the Fateless

Author's Note: _I'll admit it quite openly, though some of you might call for my head on a spike once word spreads around: I haven't read the book. I haven't even seen the musical on stage. This is solely based upon the 2004 movie. I know, this is practically anathema, and I myself strongly dislike those who claim to be fans of J.R.R. Tolkien's works and have only seen the movies. But I never claimed to be a fan (phan?), right? I'm just another boy._

_Why I am writing this? Well, the reason is that I made a rather foolhardy promise to my younger sister. It all began in December, when I first saw the movie poster in the underground station one morning. Now you mustn't think that I had no idea that something of that sort existed; in fact, I knew the musical more or less, because my sister had had the German version on cassette for a few years. Look here, lad, I told myself, there's something your sister might enjoy, and she's been complaining about you not inviting her to the cinema for some time, so why not give her another little Christmas present? Loving brother that I am, I did just that. I even agreed to go only with her and without the (normally necessary) company of my best friend and faithful brother-in-mischief. At first I was rather sceptical, because I'm not much of a musical freak, and because I feared that it might be too romantic for my taste. However, I must say that I found it was a good movie; my expectations were topped greatly. On our way home, I was even reckless enough to promise my sister to buy her the DVD for her birthday. And this was a grave mistake, because her birthday is in March, and the DVD won't be out until then. So I needed something else to give to her. Which is how I came up with this story._

_I'm afraid I must discourage those who poked their noses in here in hope of a romantic love story. First, my being of the male persuasion might appear suspicious to some girls (and I do feel a little awkward when handling female characters sometimes, but it works out well enough for my taste). Second, when I say this is more of a fantasy adventure with bits of dark passion in it instead of loads of romantic love, some of you might go running. Third, I'm not really part of the fandom (phandom?)._

_While I'm quite unwilling to do anything about the first two points, I might work on the last. I'm planning to read the book, for example. And my best friend and I have already founded the League of Raoul-Haters (we can't help it, he's just so annoying), which can definitely be counted as a movie-associated club. You see, I can adapt if the occasion calls for it._

_And to prove that I made some progress on knowing the musical, I'll be only using quotes from the songs for chapter titles (my sister owns the soundtrack, you see, and I'm a quick learner). Have fun recognizing them._

_And have fun reading my story… if you dare…_

**Full Cast (and how you'll have to imagine them):**

The Phantom……Gerard Butler

Christine……Emmy Rossum

Raoul……Patrick Wilson

Meg……Jennifer Ellison

Créon……Hugo Weaving

Niobe……Patricia Velazquez

Mme Giry……Miranda Richardson

Gaston……Christian Bale

Serge……Rufus Sewell

Hulot……Keanu Reeves

Adhemar……Sean Bean

Aeternus……Gary Oldman

Leclair……Jason Flemyng

Xavier……Orlando Bloom

Marie……Winona Ryder

Lászlo……Richard Roxburgh

Sándor……Hayden Christensen

Lionel……Jürgen Prochnow

Kalo……Timothy Spall

Fifi……Sadie Frost

Bertrand……Michael Gambon

André……Simon Callow

Firmin……Ciarán Hinds

Claude……Russell Crowe

Carlotta……Minnie Driver

Ferox……Tyler Mane

Atrox……Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson

Febis……Christopher Lee

Jacques……Paul Bettany

**Censor: PG-13.** Parents are strongly cautioned: This story contains violence (_real_ violence, not only brief moments like in the movie) as well as some sexual content.


	2. BOOK ONE: The Hope of the Lost Ones

**Book One: The Hope of the Lost Ones**

**I. Darkness stirs  
II. Too many Years  
III. Let me be your Shelter  
IV. The Trap is set**

Author's Note: _Well, here we go. Let the Saga begin… I would be grateful for any kind of constructive criticism. All questions you ask in your reviews will be answered on the review board (this is a promise), but you can also e-mail me at to get a more personal reply._


	3. I Darkness stirs

**I. Darkness stirs**

The light of the torch was flickering, throwing bizarre, rapidly changing shadows against the rough walls of the underground cavity. Was this still part of the cellars? Meg Giry had to admit to herself that she had lost all her feeling of orientation during her descent. How could one ever live down here? It was so dark, so dark and so cold.

She turned and took a glance around. She was alone in the darkness.

Involuntarily Meg's fingers clenched around the object she was carrying. He was there. She was sure he was. Someone was out there, hidden in the shadows. Once again she turned around, her booted feet kicking up small cascades of dust. Had there just been a flicker of movement, or had it only been one of the dancing reflections on the walls?

_Your hand at the level of your eyes…_

Shuddering, she slowly raised up her left arm – and froze when she realized what exactly she was holding up. There was something he would retrieve for sure when he saw it… and he had killed people for less than this…

Her hand trembled as she pressed what she was holding to her chest. There was something that would surely draw him to her… Now her other hand, the one holding the torch, began to tremble as well. What felt like a hard lump was building up in her stomach. If he really was somewhere out there, what kept him from coming at her?

Maybe he had seen that she was, despite the men's clothes she was wearing, a woman, and therefore was unwilling to harm her?

No, she could not expect him to be a gentleman. Not him.

What else was keeping him, then?

Her mother. There was something about her mother. Her mother knew things about him and his lair others did not, and she had heard him speak as if… as if she knew him, yes. Meg could not be sure, but it had suddenly occurred to her at that time, and now the memory came back to her. More than one memory, to be exact.

What if her mother _did_ know him?

Why wouldn't she have said so, then?

Yes, there were things her mother rarely mentioned, like her husband, Meg's father, for example, but still –

And then a thought so outrageous occurred to her that the torch almost slipped from her sweaty hand. She had never known her father. She had never even seen a picture of him, and her mother refused to say much about him, except that he had died before Meg was even born. And she spoke of the Phantom as if she knew him, and she seemed not to be afraid of him, and he had always been there, as long as Meg could remember… Was the Phantom perhaps – she willed herself to think that one thought to its end, as hard as it was – was the Phantom her father? Was it what he had become… or what he had always been?

Meg shuddered, and the light from the torch flickered worse than ever, quickening the shadows' dance.

And the clothes she was currently wearing, the shirt and trousers and boots… they had been her father's.

Meg felt her throat tighten, just as if a cold, strong, merciless hand had placed itself around it. No! No! It could not be true! It simply couldn't!

And why exactly not, asked a cruel little voice inside her mind. After all, you have glimpsed him on stage, and you know he is human enough… Christine knows he is…

Christine. Where was Christine? Where had he taken her?

Frightened yet determined, Meg took a step forward into the vast cavity before her, past the pair of sculpted cherubs at the entrance. The light from her torch did not reach the room's opposite end. "Christine" she ventured softly.

_Christine, Christine, Christine, Christine…_ The echo faded away into a silence worse than before.

Meg suddenly wished that she had not come down here, all on her own. How she wished to be back in her own warm room, away from all this cold and darkness! How she wished she had obeyed her mother!

But there was no way back now.

She took another few steps forward, then turned again, then continued forward once more. To both sides, she could see rough stone walls, but the cavity's other end still wasn't in sight.

Again she turned and glanced back the way she had come. The tunnel mouth that had led her here was completely dark now, dark and empty… except for a pair of luminous green orbs shining eerily from where she had been standing just a moment ago, like a cat's eyes, but much too far above the ground for a cat… They held her gaze for a moment that elongated into eternity… and then they were gone.

And then there came a very faint rustling sound, like of something moving in the darkness…

Panic seized Meg, flooded her with the force of a vast ocean wave. All of her own accord, she began to run, her feet carrying her forward as fast as they could. The drum-roll of her own heartbeat filled her ears, her mind, her whole awareness. Ahead, another stone wall came into sight finally, rough as the others, but still seeming smooth – because there was no door in it.

In mindless fear, she threw herself against the wall, again and again, desperate to find a way out, to escape from that terror following behind her. She moved along the wall, still pressing against it, kicking at it, attempting to claw at it, over towards the right-hand corner, refusing to turn around to see what was behind her. Her thoughts were reeling madly; she begged her mother and every deity known to her to help, her to save her, to somehow get her out of here, out, out…

And suddenly the wall before her gave way, and she fell forward, hitting hard ground painfully, rolling over with a groan. Forcing herself to get back to her feet immediately, she saw that she was in a very small square room, and that there were walls all around her. Ahead of her, a rusty metal ladder led up into the gloom.

There was only one way. Refusing to wonder how exactly she had gotten out of the vast cavity, she began to climb. It was not easy, considering that her hands were slippery with sweat, and that she was carrying a torch in one and another item in the other hand, yet she wiled herself to go on, to climb on upwards, trying not to think of what would happen if she slipped. Once she lost her hold wit her right hand, and in her panic to find it again, the torch slid from her fingers and fell down into the darkness, leaving her without the slightest bit of light, but still she climbed on, ever upwards.

And finally there was an opening she could pull herself through, and a so welcome hint of dim, grey light. Staggering forward, she met with resistance, which gave way easily, though, and she tumbled out of the doors of a dusty old broom cupboard, out into the light. Of course, it was only the moon shining in through the window, but never before had the night seemed so luminous to Meg. Having the mind to kick the cupboard doors shut behind her and lock it with the small key she found stuck in one of them, she rushed to the small, dusty room's exit, without thought pocketing the key.

She found herself in a corridor she recognized, somewhere off the back staircase that led to the young girls' dormitories. Before she reached her own bedroom, she never stopped running.

Once back in her room, she locked the door firmly behind her, then collapsed onto the bed, heedless of all the dirt and dust staining her clothes. Only now did she let go of what she had been clutching to her chest: a white mask.


	4. II Too many Years

**II. Too many Years**

Snow was falling steadily, dancing on gusts of wild wind. The sky was of a uniform shading of pale grey, and the landscape outside, the roofs and streets, already covered deeply, seemed to be painted in black and white. The light was fading rapidly.

Inside the room, a fire was crackling merrily in the fireplace, but there was still a feeling of cold in the air, so strong it was almost tangible. Partly, it came from what still remained of the winter's cold from before the fire had been lit, but partly it seemed to originate from the man standing at the window and gazing out into the swirling ballet of innumerable snowflakes. He stood quite still, intent on what lay beyond the glass, ignoring everything else. Despite the temperature, he was in shirtsleeves, and he had even pushed them up to the elbow. On a chair lay a discarded black cloak.

The door opened a fraction, and then a woman slipped in. She was in her middle years and dressed all in black, and although she was not very tall, there was a certain stern, commanding presence about her. After all, Madame Giry was the ballet instructor of the Opera Populaire.

Silently closing the door behind her, her eyes never left the man at the window, who did not stir at her arrival, as she crossed the room and deposited a bag on her bed. Despite the sound of the flames, the silence lay heavy in the air. "I somehow expected to find you here", she said at last.

He neither moved nor responded.

Almost automatically, Madame Giry straightened the cloak on the chair. "Where have you been?"

"Out", he answered curtly, still staring straight ahead.

"Only in this? It must be freezing out there."

"I don't care." His voice might have had a pleasant sound, had he not spoken so tonelessly.

"I was worried about you."

She might as well not have said anything, for he did not react at all.

Carefully, she approached him. "I was afraid that they might catch you. That they might do something to you."

"They can't kill a ghost", he said flatly, impassively watching how the wind swept the smoke from the chimneys.

"But you're not a ghost. You're of flesh and blood."

This time, he shifted his position very slightly. "Oh, thank you, I hadn't yet noticed", he said scathingly.

Madame Giry sighed. "At least accept that I was worried."

For some time there was silence, broken only by the wind rattling the shutters and the greedy crackling of the flames. Then he said, very softly: "Why don't you just hate me, like everybody else?"

"Because I know you better than everybody else", she said simply. Only a few paces away from him now, she could see that his dark hair was wet in places, and there were moist patches on his shirt, as well – whereas the cloak had been quite dry to the touch. He couldn't have been out in the snow in just his thin shirt, could he?

"You might exclude someone", he said, and his voice suddenly sounded hoarse and throaty.

"Are you sure?"

Again he made no answer, but she could see how his knuckles whitened as he grasped the windowsill harder. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch his shoulder, then stopped the motion in mid-air. This was the closest she had been to him for several years, she realized. And she was not sure if he would suffer her to touch him, especially in his present mood. It did not truly show on his face; his features appeared entirely impassive as his eyes followed a solitary crow wheeled through the sky by the wind. But so close to him, she thought she could sense the torrents of feelings inside him. Rage, throbbing and boiling. Hatred. Wounded pride. And pain. So much pain. It made her afraid.

No, she told herself, he wouldn't harm her. Not her. But the truth was that she wasn't too sure anymore, not after all he had done. He wasn't the boy she had once known anymore, as she had reminded herself countless times during those last few days. He was a grown man, and he was dangerous. A long time ago, she might have told him to change into a dry shirt and go to bed, but this certainly was no option now. He was long past the stage where she could have dealt with him like that. You didn't send the Phantom of the Opera to bed, except if you were eager to meet with a most unfortunate accident.

He had never liked it when he had not gotten what he wanted, she recalled, and she had known for a considerable time that he could be quite possessive with certain things, but that he would ever carry it that far…

She should have never let him near the girl.

But even if she had tried to intervene then, she would not have been able to stop him. He simply did as he pleased, and he had done so for years now.

Still, she wondered if this all might have been avoided if she had just acted differently somewhere in the past. Maybe it could have changed what was to come – and saved them all much pain. But how could she have known what was going to happen? How could she have known?

_She was climbing down the dark, narrow, slippery staircase, a lantern in one hand and a basket in the other. "Where's my favourite ghost?" she called into the darkness._

_There came the sound of hurried footsteps, and just as the staircase opened into what seemed to be an underground hall, he stepped into the light, shielding his eyes, but beaming. "You'll never guess what I did", he stated._

_"Oh, I know it very well. You just scared a buffet lady almost to death."_

_"Oh, come on! She should have simply given it a closer look." He had lowered his hand, and his eyes blinked mischievously from beneath a feathered mask in black and gold._

_Could it be that he had grown another inch? Their eyes had been about on the same height when they had first met, and he had grown a little taller during the following months, but now it seemed to her that he had grown even taller than she had realized. There was no way to tell when he would stop growing, just as there was no way to tell how old he was exactly. He could be anything between thirteen and sixteen. And he had exactly the talent for mischief she expected from a growing lad. "She claims there was a tray with sandwiches floating in mid-air", she informed him._

_"It wasn't! I just pulled it out of the flap on a string." He tugged on the sleeve of the overlarge and much too lacy white shirt he was wearing – he simply loved digging around among the old costumes, she knew it. They had done quite a lot of digging together, actually. "The sandwiches were good, by the way." He snickered. "I might leave her a note telling her so."_

_"And sign it with _The Opera Ghost_ again?"_

_"Sure. I find it nice how they all believe in me."_

_She giggled along with him. "Well, you won't have to do that again today, for I brought you something."_

_"Really?"__ He eyed the basket with great curiosity. "May I see?"_

_Smiling, she pulled it out of his reach, teasing him. "Only some bread and cheese. Oh, and something else, too."_

_"Something else?"_

_"It's something you like. Something you really like."_

_His features shifted into a grin, while he playfully tried to grab the basket from her. "Not chocolate, by any chance?"_

_"Your chances are good with that."_

_"Oh." His grin widened. "Chocolate is something I would kill for."_

_"But you have to promise me something first."_

_His grin vanished as he saw how serious her expression was. "What is it? Is there something wrong?"_

_"I'm a bit worried", she answered him honestly. "Not all people believe in ghosts. Someone might come to investigate. What if they find you?"_

_"They never will", he said confidently. "I doubt they know all about the secret passages I've found."_

_"Still, you shouldn't draw too much attention to yourself. Don't scare people too much. Except maybe –" She broke off and shook her head. "Never mind. Just don't do it."_

_"Except what?" he insisted, and after a moment's consideration, he added: "Except who?"_

_She only shook her head again. "It doesn't matter."_

_Gingerly, he reached out to touch her shoulder. "Someone upset you. What happened?"_

_At first she wanted to tell him that it was of no importance, but the way his bright eyes held her gaze… He was silently urging her to explain, and promising to understand. Before she knew what she was truly doing, words burst out of her, about that crude stagehand whose name she didn't even know, about the looks he had always given her, about how he had recently adopted the habit of trying to touch her behind the stage, about the words the man called after her, about all the humiliation…_

_"He'll regret it!" The boy's normally gentle, melodious voice was a hiss, and his teeth were bared in an angry snarl. "I'll make him suffer for this! I promise you, I will!"_

The man had mysteriously disappeared only a short time later, Madame Giry recalled, and two weeks after his disappearance they had found his body in the river. Fallen into the water after drinking too much wine and drowned, this was what she had heard. And at that time, she had not questioned it. But now… She strongly suspected that it had been no accident. He had always tried to guard her, grateful and affectionate, and she had detected a flicker of jealousy in him when she had told him that she was going to get married. But he had accepted it, and had been glad for her, and he had offered her comfort after her husband's death, which had come so much too early.

She might have taken him as her lover then, and she admitted to herself that she had seriously considered it a few times, but their relationship had changed then. Ever since her husband's death, he had slowly begun to dominate it. He had ceased to be a younger brother and, to her eyes, turned into something more distant, more demonic. On the night after her husband's death, he had suddenly stood in the doorway, clothed all in black and in a flowing cloak, and wearing his white mask for the first time. At first she had not realized who he was and shied away from him, taking him for some kind of angel of death. Only hearing his voice had calmed her down. Finally, exhausted from crying, she had fallen asleep in his arms. Had he taken advantage of her then, she would surely have yielded, but he hadn't done so. He never had. And she had not dared to approach him in such a way, not anymore.

From then on, he had appeared upstairs frequently, growing bolder. There had frequently been tales among the chorus, ballet and stagehands that he had been sighted stalking the corridors somewhere, even in broad daylight, and if she believed only half of it, it was still much. The Phantom, they had started to call him, because of the way he could suddenly appear and be gone again equally fast, and they had spoken this name in awe and fear. Soon he had been bold enough to challenge the manager – and then, finally, he had come across Christine.

For years, Madame Giry had only been glad about his special attention for the girl. Far too late she had realized that he saw her as his own, and that he was not ready to let her go. How could she have known that his feelings for Christine were that deep, and his wrath at seeming to lose her that terrible?

She should have, she told herself once again. She should have. And she should have done something before it was too late.

But what? She did not doubt that his affection for her had ever truly diminished, and she knew that she still had his trust, even now, or else he would not be here, yet for too many years he had only done as he wished. And for too many years, he had been used to be obeyed.

And for too many years, he had been alone.

She took a step closer, so that she could regard him from the side. His expression was stony, she saw, and the way his jaw was set almost made her take a large step back, or better yet a leap. But what scared her even more was the way he looked: He was pale-skinned by nature, yet he appeared even paler, and there were shadows under his eyes, as far as she could see, or at least dirty smears. His hair, normally neatly brushed back, was untidy and had lost all of its usual gleam, and he had certainly not shaved this morning. And despite their being pressed together tightly, his lips had an unhealthy bluish shading, as if he had been out in the cold for too long.

And there was something else still: He did not wear his mask.

"Where have you been?" Madame Giry asked again, her voice tinged with worry.

"Nowhere." He spoke tonelessly, without emotion.

"You've been out in the snow without even your cloak?"

"It doesn't matter."

"You could have caught your death, out there in the cold!"

"I wish I had", he said bitterly.

Madame Giry was not sure how to react to this. Part of her wanted to take him in her arms and hold him tight, while the other itched to slap him around the head for being overly pathetic. And the next moment, she wanted to slap herself. Good heavens, he wasn't a ballet girl! She was already forgetting who he was. Of course, the state he was in currently was highly unusual, but he still was the man before whom managers and crew had trembled, and would tremble still. Even if he was feeling utterly miserable, it was better not to anger him. Or maybe he was even more dangerous in this state.

She watched him silently, not knowing what to do. Still he did not move. Only one solitary tear rolled down his cheek and dripped onto his shirt.

Once more she reached out for him, and this time her fingertips brushed his upper arm.

"Don't pity me", he said, an only half-hearted attempt of protest.

She stroked his arm nonetheless, and he allowed her to, or at least he made no move to stop her. His eyes remained focused on the snow outside. Maybe he wanted to be pitied after all and was just reluctant to admit it? It seemed plausible enough. He had been alone all this time, he had always been alone, come to think of it. He just couldn't want it to be this way.

Should she have shown him more affection during those last years? Maybe it would have helped, but on the other hand, it had seemed that he preferred to make an impressive appearance, and she had been reluctant to spoil that by pulling him into a hug. Maybe he should have been snuggled frequently, but he was just the wrong type for being snuggled.

Her hand wandered up to his shoulder, down over his shoulder blade, caressed his back –

"Why do you do that?" he said at last. "Why would you care? You have no reason. Why don't you just turn me in?"

"I couldn't", she answered truthfully. Not even after he had killed several people who had nothing to do with it all. The young Vicomte de Chagny had called him a madman and a murderer, and maybe de Chagny was right, but part of her still saw in him the boy he had used to be, and whatever he had done, she still felt sorry for him.

"Don't pity me", he repeated weakly, as if he could read her mind – which was not entirely out of the question, of course.

She rested her hand between his shoulder blades. The silly boy! After all, he had come to her for something, hadn't he? "But I do", she said gently.

Very suddenly, he spun around to face her, and she automatically took a step back. "Oh no, you don't!" he snapped. "Nobody does, and I don't care! I don't want them to, do you hear? Just admit you feel repulsed, just like everyone else! Yes, look at me! Look at me, if you can! I'm nothing but a monster, and you know it!"

Madame Giry did not turn her face away, but held his gaze. Unmasked, he was not a pleasant sight. The two sides of his face just did not match. While the left half was normal enough and could be even considered attractive, the right was heavily scarred from above his eyebrow down to his upper lip and all the way back to his temple, marred by what seemed to be burns, although Madame Giry was not sure what it really was that had marked him so. Only his eyes were the same, sharp and bright blue, their gaze as intense as ever, but now more ardent, more baleful than usual.

Yet however direly he glared at her, there was only so much she would take. "Oh, talk sense, lad!" she cried, exasperated. "I've seen your face before and it doesn't scare me, and I've cared for you for years! Actually I feel like giving you a big hug, but if you behave like that, I might well box your ears instead!"

There was a sharp intake of breath from him, and for a moment he appeared rather taken aback, but then his eyes narrowed dangerously. Madame Giry froze in shock. How could she have been so careless with her tongue? She had gone too far, and there was no way she could take back her words. This was not the way to speak to the Phantom of the Opera, definitely not! And especially not if he was in a mood like this! Steeling herself for an outburst, she continued holding his gaze.

But the outburst didn't come. Instead, he turned towards the window again sharply, his lips firmly pressed together, his fingers clenching on the windowsill. She could see how his features twitched, and he flinched as a half-strangled sob fought its way out of his chest. "I'm sorry", he whispered hoarsely. "I'm sorry for everything…"

There was only one way for her to react to this: Heedless of any protests, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a tight embrace. At first he struggled a bit, but very soon he put his arms around her in turn. Madame Giry almost smiled at this. So this was what he had come for after all, wasn't it? He had just sought her comfort, just like the youngest members of ballet did from time to time. Only this morning, a scrawny and very unhappy boy had come to her in tears because he was so very far from home and missed his family so much – and probably because what had happened last night had greatly upset the poor child. It had upset everybody. And the Phantom himself was equally upset, it seemed. Just as she had done with the ballet boy, she patted his back and murmured soothing words to him, and just like the boy he grew calmer eventually, and at last his tears subsided.

She didn't let him go yet, though. What was it she feared? Somehow she wished he were again the boy he had once been. He would be easier to deal with, then, easier to control… and he would stay wherever she was. He would not go away. And somehow she was afraid he would now. Of course, he had nowhere to go, but he still might. And she suddenly realized how much she would miss him. It would never be the same without him, without the knowledge that he was watching, without him stalking the corridors somewhere in the twilight, without his little notes and the flowers he occasionally sent, without his visits, late at night… He had become part of it all with the years. If he left the opera… some of its spirit would be lost forever. Even after all he had done, she could not imagine the Opera Populaire without him.

Gently, he loosened her grip and stepped back, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I'm behaving like an idiot", he murmured. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright", she hurriedly assured him. It was so long ago that she had heard him apologize for something, and now he had already said it three times… Very clearly, his defences were down currently. "You need some rest", she continued quickly as soon as she realized this, her maternal instincts taking over. "And a warm blanket would do you some good, after running around in the cold like this. I'll make you some tea, shall I?"

"I'm fine", he protested feebly. "I'm really fine."

"And you should change your shirt", she overrode him. "It's still wet in places. Come on, off to bed you go."

"I can't just occupy your bed", he said, but allowed himself to be steered towards it and sat down on it without objections to take off his boots.

"Of course you can", she waved his protest away while she stored her shopping bag elsewhere. "Especially since it's the middle of the afternoon and I won't be needing it now. Remember when you had that bad fever, in your first winter here? You spent three full days and nights in my bed then. So don't have a bad conscience about it, you're not forcing me to sleep on the rug this time."

She met with surprisingly little resistance, and soon she had him tucked into bed comfortably with the blanket up to his chin, and his shirt got a place close to the fireplace where it could dry. Madame Giry was truly astonished at him as well as at herself. She had expected him to put up a fight, despite his apparent exhaustion. But maybe he had come to enjoy her attention? It might just be like with her own daughter: However wildly Meg protested at too much maternal attention, she always seemed to like her mother to fuss over her when she was not feeling well.

Content with her success, Madame Giry sat down at the edge of the bed, having a hard time with resisting the urge to tousle his hair. He was already starting to doze off, and he blinked up at her like a night owl. "You won't go away", she said gently, "will you?"

"What?" he murmured sleepily. "No. Not away."

"Good. We would miss you if you did."

"Not as long as your daughter still has my mask."

"She has?" Madame Giry asked in surprise. "How?"

But he did not quite register her question. "Tell her I want it back", he murmured, before his already drooping eyelids slid shut completely at last.

Madame Giry remained seated beside him for some time, until his steady breathing told her that he was firmly asleep. Meg had his mask? Had he already been gliding off into a dream when he had said it? But she would ask her daughter as soon as Meg returned from the city.

"Sleep well", she whispered, and, even softer: "They can't destroy a legend."


	5. III Let me be your Shelter

**III. Let me be your Shelter**

Raoul de Chagny lounged in an armchair in front of the ornate fireplace, reading the newspaper. Or at least this was what he was trying to do. The truth was that he was too uneasy, too nervous to take in anything of the paper's contents. He should not have let them go on their own! How could he ever had agreed to anything like that? Yes, Christine had assured him it was totally safe, and somehow she had managed to smother his protests with throwing him one of those marvellous smouldering looks through her eyelashes. But this was the last time she did that, he assured himself, the very last time! Never again would he allow her to wander off on her own! Not with a killer on the loose somewhere.

Of course, Christine was not alone, Meg was with her, and they had taken the coach, but her childhood friend, the coachman and the footman could be scarcely considered a protection against this… man. And he was lurking somewhere out there right now, Raoul knew it. If he had any sense, he would not return to the Opera House right now. And Raoul was sure that he had sense enough for that. He might be mad, but he was also dangerously sophisticated. And forgetting this might well be the last mistake one would ever make.

He should never have let them go.

Countless times Raoul had considered to go out and look for them, but he had no idea where they were, secretive as they had been upon their departure, and Paris was a large city. They could be anywhere.

Why had Christine insisted to go without him, anyway?

With a groan of frustration, Raoul dropped the paper and slumped back into the armchair. They shouldn't have stayed here at all, he and Christine. He should have grabbed her and taken her far, far away, where nobody would find her.

Yes, they would go away. As soon as Christine returned, they would prepare to depart for the family's mason in the country. This was not exactly far away, but it would do for now.

The only difficulty would be explaining to his parents what was going on. What had happened at the Opera Populaire last night was in the papers, or at least part of it, but the rest of the story… He had not informed them of his engagement yet, for a start.

His mother would be angry.

With another agonized groan, Raoul reached for the packet of cigarettes on the table beside him. He was a rather unconvinced smoker, especially if compared to his father, who enjoyed cigars, but there were some occasions which called for it. And this was one of them. Lighting the cigarette rather unenthusiastically, he wondered if going abroad might be an option. To England, perhaps.

His mother would never let him travel anywhere together with a young woman he wasn't yet married to.

Was there any other option? Anything else they could do to escape that demon's clutches?

The smoke from the cigarette produced an unpleasant, stinging sensation in his nostrils, and he held the offending thing as far away from him as possible while trying to make his pose look nonchalant – one of the servants might be watching.

No, there was nothing he could do apart from sit and wait, and never again allow Christine to leave his eyeshot until they found a better solution.

And maybe this might be a nice explanation for his parents, that he was just being protective of his childhood playmate.

Yes, until they found out that Christine had moved into his bedroom.

His mother was going to kill him.

The cigarette smoke began to cause a faint feeling of nausea in his stomach, and he flung the wretched thing in the direction of the fireplace hard. Yet what he had forgotten was that hurling light objects over some distance and still hitting the target was a lot more difficult than it looked, and soon he found himself stamping out the smouldering patch on the carpet, cursing to himself. What a foul, horrible day! This was the last time he let Christine wander off on her own, and the last time he smoked just as well! He didn't like it anyway. And a gentleman really didn't have to smoke, for pity's sake!

Agitated as he was, he did not sit down again, but started pacing the length of the living room and back instead, his face gloomier than ever. Why did a day like this, a day meant to be lovely, have to turn out that awful? It had started so splendidly, after all, with him waking up beside Christine, and all those pleasant memories from last night coming back to him… He still couldn't quite stifle a little snicker when thinking of it. And this was what came later on, his worries, and atop that a hole in the expensive carpet.

His mother was truly going to kill him…

Maybe there was some way to blame it all on this Phantom fellow?

At the sudden sound of the key being turned in the lock, he jumped, then raced out into the hall as fast as he could. This earned him a surprised look from the butler, but he didn't care. Christine was back! Christine was safe! He felt like leaping up to the ceiling with joy.

The door opened, and he rushed to meet her before the butler could take her cloak, hugging her tight, twirling her around happily. "Finally! I was so worried about you!"

"Worried?" She frowned at him, though answering the hug. "We were only gone for two hours."

"That's time enough for something to happen to you", Raoul pointed out.

"Oh, Raoul! What should have happened?"

"_Him_", Raoul answered grimly. "He's still around somewhere, don't forget that."

"Yes, but he wouldn't harm me", she said confidently. "I'd rather expect him to turn up here to deal with you."

"He can try", Raoul said, scowling, hugging her even tighter. Only then he noticed that the butler, with Meg's cloak already over his arm, was giving him a very disapproving look, and quickly stepped back and took Christine's dark blue cloak himself, then handed it over to the man. The butler still didn't look convinced, though.

Meg was standing behind Christine, with a little smile playing around her lips. She was pretty enough, yet it always seemed to Raoul that she appeared dimmed beside Christine's radiance. Realizing he had not greeted her yet, he strode over to hug her, too, though this hug was much shorter and didn't involve twirling her about, only lifting her off her feet for a moment.

Behind his back, Christine giggled. "Like a puppy, isn't he?"

A _puppy_? He decided that he needed to have a word with her in private some time. "Anyway", he ploughed on determinedly, "does _not harming you_ include picking you up and carrying you away to some dark place where he can paw you in peace?"

"Honestly, Raoul", Christine protested"he's hardly going to do anything of that sort in broad daylight and in the middle of a busy street. Besides, he has never yet tried to paw me."

"He wasn't reluctant to do that all on stage", Raoul pointed out. "And he pawed you alright, I've seen him do it."

"Yes, but that was something else", Christine explained in a tone which sounded suspiciously like strained patience. Strained patience? What was he doing wrong"He can't just abduct me in the middle of a crowded street, as I said. And I'd like to see how he manages to do his trapdoor trick, then. And he only touched me; pawing ought to feel different. Can we move on to the living room now?"

Biting his tongue in frustration, Raoul stood back and let the women pass. Was he just imagining things, or was the butler really giving him a smug look? Moreover, Christine and Meg were giggling with their heads together. Had Meg really just said, "Has Raoul yet pawed you?" Oh, he could have screamed!

Following them into the living room, he tried hard to regain his composure. Christine just had to see that she was endangering herself! God, if anything happened to her, he would never be able to forgive himself, never in his life.

Christine and Meg took a seat on the sofa, and at first Raoul wanted to join them, but then he remembered the blackened patch on the carpet and chose to stand by the fireplace, with one foot firmly covering the evidence of his earlier mishap. "Now listen here", he began immediately, "you're being far too reckless. I should never have let you set foot out of the house alone. There's a murderer stalking the streets somewhere, and it's you he wants, however hard you try to deny it. What were you two doing that I couldn't come, anyway?" he added. Not that he was jealous, certainly not. It was just… He did not like the idea.

"It was for our wedding, Raoul. No need to be suspicious." Suspicious? _Him_?"We were just looking around."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" Raoul cried. "Who is planning their wedding, you and me, or rather you and Meg?"

Immediately after it was uttered, he regretted his outburst. However, there was no need to apologize, for both Meg and Christine were having one of their fits of giggles again. "Oh, Raoul, you're so sweet!" Christine exclaimed. "Really! Oh, you should see the look on your face!" Bounding to her feet, she rushed over to him and threw her arms around his neck, almost knocking him out of balance. "If we weren't already engaged, I'd ask you to marry me straight away!"

"Christine…", he began, but she silenced him by gently, yet determinedly putting a hand over his mouth. "You can't possibly know how grateful I am to you", she said earnestly. Her face was very close to his, and those beautiful dark eyes gave him a tingly feeling somewhere around his stomach. "But you mustn't worry about me that much. I don't want you to worry just because of me."

"But I love you!" he protested, taking her hand away from his face and holding it tightly in his, caressing the back of her hand with his thumb. "You can't keep me from worrying, not even by telling me I mustn't." Heavens, she was just so very beautiful. And she seemed so small in his arms, so fragile… "Promise me you won't go out without me again", he whispered into her hair.

"Raoul…"

"Please", he tried.

And suddenly she giggled again. "Oh, alright, if you really want to… But you'll be expected to carry shopping bags and put up with girls' talk then."

"We'll force you to look at dresses endlessly", Meg suggested from the sofa.

"We'll talk about really girlish things." Christine was still giggling. "Embroidery and laces. Horribly romantic things."

"And what we find hot in a man", Meg grinned.

Raoul raised his eyebrows at her over Christine's curly head. "I might find that instructive, you know."

"Or maybe you might feel jealous?" Meg asked innocently.

Raoul smiled. "As long as you let me stay at her side and protect her, you'll find that I can put up with anything." Yes, anything. Just as long as he could be with her and shelter her from all those nightmares from the past.


	6. IV The Trap is set

**IV. The Trap is set**

"I can see you, Lionel", a gentle voice spoke from the gloom, gentle but at the same time cold, very cold.

The man shifted around without truly moving away from where he crouched. Impossibly green eyes shone like small, circular candle flames. "How? The darkness is complete down here." His voice was rough and husky, a raspy snarl from a predator's throat.

"You forget who I am. What I am."

"When you look at me, Master… what do you see?"

There was a pause, and the sound of gentle waves beating against a rocky shore was unnaturally loud suddenly, like the heartbeat of a vast underground creature lurking in the eternal night. Then the voice spoke again from the shadows. "Everything. Your past. Your present. Your future. All the depths and shallows of your miserable soul."

The crouching man visibly shivered, and the brilliantly green orbs winked out as he turned his head away. "He is not here", he said at last.

"No."

"Will he return?"

"He will."

"And give hope to the Lost Ones?" The husky voice had suddenly acquired an eager tone.

"I will write out his destiny for him."

Lionel nodded in the darkness, awed and obedient. "Master… How long do we still wait here?"

"No longer. Gather the servants and return to the lair we have chosen. Eventually, he will come back… and spring the trap I have prepared for him."

In one swift motion, the crouching man was back on his feet, offered a bow to the one he served and then noiselessly slipped off into the night. From where the shadows were deepest, a pair of eyes followed him, and then the gentle, but cold voice whispered, as if savouring the taste of the words: "The Devil's Child…"


	7. BOOK TWO: The Veil of Concealment

**Book Two: The Veil of Concealment**

**I. The Mask you wear  
II. The Prison of my Mind  
III. Anywhere you go  
IV. Wishing I could hear your Voice again  
V. In this Labyrinth**

Author's Note: _First of all, I would like to thank all of my reviewers. Your support is very encouraging, and I'm very delighted every time another review alert turns up in my inbox – when I saw three in it just now, I couldn't believe my luck! Thank you very much!_

_Second, I'm really, really sorry about the punctuation problem. Please don't think that I'm too dense to know what a question mark is; in fact, I've got all of the nasty little signs typed – but somehow throws them out, I have no idea why and how. I try to replace them on the editor, but I'm afraid I occasionally miss some._

_That you think my characterizations are correct is very comforting, I always worry about that. But that some of you seem to think I'm especially good at Madame Giry (does she have a first name, by the way?) surprises me, I always feel like a blundering lout around her. My favourite point of view is the Phantom's, of course – as I write these lines, I have most of Book Two typed already, and it contains the first chapter of his very own. I'm really going to enjoy writing Book Five, where eight of nine chapters will be his!_

_Which leads me straight to my next (and final) point: Yes, you've seen me through, I've got all of this very carefully planned. Because if I don't, stories have the tendency to get out of my hand rather quickly. I've got all the Book and Chapter titles, the plot outline, the character lists and the point of view listing for each chapter, which means a great lot of paperwork on my desk. And my mother hasn't yet even complained, but I expect that to come any moment now… While I leave you to wonder about who the hell the Lost Ones are, I know it all exactly (evil cackle included in this place, of course, it just has to be here when I make such a statement). Well, at least you know now who it was Meg saw in the beginning._

_Oh, and by the way: The titles above may show you that I know a tiny bit more of the lyrics than it could be expected from someone who, before he saw the movie, believed quite firmly that the Phantom was an undead (they left that bit out, and it was my bloody favourite stanza!)…_


	8. I The Mask you wear

**I. The Mask you wear**

Meg almost regretted that she had insisted that her mother stay behind. After all, the memory of last night's adventure was still fresh and strong in her. But on the other hand, she did not want her mother to think she was a coward. And moreover, if her mother so readily agreed to let her go the last part of the way alone, she would take the chance.

How did her mother know about the mask? She had not told anyone, not even Christine when she had seen her this afternoon – alive and well, the Heavens be thanked. There was only one possible answer: The Phantom had really been there last night, watching her from the darkness, and he had gone to tell her mother.

Plodding through shallow pools of water on the uneven stone ground, Meg wished she had the boots again, and the rest of her father's old clothes she had borrowed from the chest in her mother's room. They were so much more comfortable when venturing through a dark, wet tunnel; this way, she had to gather up her skirts so they wouldn't get dirty. Of course, her mother had not approved of her choice of clothing, and not of her going down into the cellars altogether. But surprisingly, Meg had not been told off as severely as she had expected. Maybe her mother had thought that being cold and scared was punishment enough.

She almost slipped on the wet floor and managed to steady herself against the wall just in time, nearly dropping her torch. How far still to go? And when she reached the place she was heading for, would she really find him there?

She was not sure if she wanted to. Part of her was eager to see this legendary Phantom from closer up, while the other desperately hoped he would be gone, and that she could just leave the mask somewhere for him to find.

The question which had arisen during the last night was haunting her still, but she tried to ignore it. She had not asked her mother. At first she had wanted to do so, yet when she had had the chance, she had not quite dared. No, she told herself, it was nothing but a crazy fancy of her mind, nothing more.

She had asked Christine about the Phantom, though, about what he looked like – and if, by any chance, he had glowing green eyes. Christine had said that he looked human enough, and that his eyes were blue, but she had been reluctant to speak about him and about what had happened to her and Raoul down in the cellars last night. And Meg had understood and not pressed her any further.

Maybe she had just imagined those eyes in the darkness. Maybe she had just thought to see something because she was so on edge about her friend.

But still… he _had_ seen her, hadn't he?

And then she stopped short. Before her was a wide, gaping hole in the ground, stretching from side to side of the corridor. Dimly she could make out its other end, several meters away. There was no way to tell how deep it was, because it was filled with dark water.

Her mother certainly had not known about this, or else she would have told her. Should she go back to her and inquire about another way to the Phantom's lair?

No, she decided, she would not allow herself to be deterred by some stupid hole in the ground, especially not if there was a narrow ledge at one of its sides. If she was careful, she was sure that she could get across balancing on it. After all, she was one of the best among the Opera Populaire's ballerinas.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped onto it sideways. There was just room enough for her to stand, and though some pebbles rolled into the water, the ledge held her. Very well. Ahead, then.

Moving on slowly and carefully, all went well until she had covered almost half the distance. Then, very suddenly, her dress got caught on something. Tugging at her skirts angrily, she really wished her mother had allowed her to don her father's old clothes once more. This would never have happened had she only been wearing trousers! Once more she tried to pull free, more vigorously than before – and then there was the sound of ripping fabric, and she overbalanced and fell into the icy cold water with a scream, hearing the torch go out with an angry hiss before she herself broke the dark surface with a splash. The water was deep; she did not meet the bottom. Struggling upwards again, the cold stung her with a thousand needles, and the air she inhaled was not much better. It was so dark that she could hardly see her hand if she waved it in front of her eyes, let alone her surroundings. Only the white mask she was still clutching was a faint touch of a lighter colour.

Which way had she come, and which way was she heading? Very suddenly she was not sure anymore. Fighting down the rising panic, she tried to concentrate, despite the pain in her limbs. Think, she told herself, just think. The ledge had been on the left side of the wall, so if she managed to find the ledge again, she would at least know from which direction she had come. With renewed hope, she started to swim –

There was a splash off to one of her sides, and then she felt someone's arms around her middle, and she was pulled in the direction from where the splash had come… Without thinking, she kicked at him hard, struggled against his grip. There came a grunt from the darkness, and then a male voice said, close by her ear: "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't do that."

Meg froze. She knew that voice. She had heard it once before, only the day before, to be exact. And she knew who it belonged to.

"Thank you", the Phantom said, dragging her along through the cold water. It seemed to Meg that he was swimming quite fast, and indeed, very soon they touched the other side of the traitorous hole, and he pushed her up out of the water roughly before he clambered after her.

Still it was too dark to see, and Meg remained crouching where she was, afraid she might fall into another hole if she moved. How could the Phantom ever find his way in this blackness? Did he already know every square meter of the cellars by heart? Or could he see in this darkest night of all?

"Come on", his voice came from very close beside her, making her wince. "I'll have this back, thank you very much." A hand touched hers and gently loosened her grip on the mask, pulling it from her grasp. "Come on, move."

"I can't see", she objected feebly, slowly getting back to her feet and shivering in her soaking dress. "I don't know how you move around in this darkness, but I can't."

"Never underestimate my night sight", he answered, and his rich, melodious voice carried a very slight tone of amusement. "I'll guide you." She felt an arm around her shoulders, and a gentle pressure urging her forward. Taking a deep breath, she allowed herself to be led, wishing fervently for just the tiniest flicker of light.

When she turned her head and glanced upwards, she could discern the white mask beside her, like a blind spot in a flood of black. Nothing but a mask. She could feel him beside her, and his proximity made her shiver as did the cold, but she could not see him – while he could see her. She was completely in his hands now.

Where was he taking her? He might lead her anywhere; there was no way to tell, in this darkness. What was he going to do with her? Would he punish her for stealing his mask? Was he going to kill her, somewhere too far for her mother to hear her screams?

"Don't be afraid", he said gently, just as if he could read her mind. "I'm not going to harm you."

"Where are you taking me?" It came out as a scared little whisper.

"To my home."

As Meg turned her head towards him once more, she thought she could make out a shape beside her, where she felt that he was, and she thought to recognize that he wore a white shirt, but she could not be sure. Was she getting used to the darkness, or was it perhaps getting lighter? Hope arose in her, driving back the fear and even the cold. She would be back in the light. She would be safe.

The Phantom led her around a corner, and very suddenly she could perceive her surroundings clearly in the flickering glow of a few candles planted on a rock tooth, against which small waves of dark water were ceaselessly, but, due to the lack of wind, very softly, beating. The corridor had opened into a large cavern, and there was more light ahead, small specks of candlelight like a horde of glow-worms in a mild summer night.

Releasing her, the Phantom gave her a little mock bow. "Welcome to my wet, mouldy dungeons", he said smoothly, as if he had just led her into the marble entrance hall of a palace. "Have a look around, but kindly don't take any more things upstairs I'll sorely miss later on."

"I'm sorry", Meg murmured, not looking at him. Was he angry? She assumed he was.

He shrugged. "As long as you never do it again… You'll be forgiven this time. After all, you could consider me an old friend of your mother's." He hesitated a moment, then added, in a very light, conversational tone which sounded horribly staged somehow"And you're a friend of Christine's, too." Abruptly he fell silent and turned away, pretending to be busy with the candles.

Meg waited uneasily, not knowing what to do. Until now, he had not harmed her, and he had guided her through the darkness carefully, if not exactly gently. But he could change his mind any moment, of course. Any moment. Meg shivered, and not only from standing there in a soaking wet dress.

As suddenly as he had turned away, he turned back to face her once more. In the yellow light of the candles, Meg could make him out clearly for the first time. As she had recognized earlier on already, he was tall, and she had been correct in her assumption that he was wearing a white shirt. She found herself agreeing with Christine, he appeared human enough; that mask was eerie, however. What came rather unexpected was that he looked a lot younger than she had imagined him to be. His dark hair was hanging into his face in dripping strands, only brushed aside slightly from the right side of his forehead towards his temple, probably when fitting his mask back on. His wet clothes clung to his skin, but if he was cold, he did not show it. And he really had blue eyes. Could it have been him nonetheless, standing in the entrance to the dusty hall last night, between the sculpted cherubs, and gazing at her from the shadows? She was not quite sure. But who else would have been down there, and who else would have had reason to follow her? Unless she had only imagined it, of course.

Another thought came to her unbidden: This man was not only plainly human, but a rather gorgeous one as well. Why had Christine never mentioned _that_? Probably because he had scared her too much to allow any such ideas… or because she had never seen him in a wet shirt. What was revealed of his face was surprisingly pleasant to look at, and what his thin shirt revealed… He was quite perfect.

Noticing his tiny smile of amusement, Meg realized with a flash of embarrassment that she was eyeing him openly and quickly averted her gaze, staring hard towards the specks of candlelight in a little distance, feeling the blush creeping onto her cheeks. Her mother would never approve of such a behaviour!

"Follow me", the Phantom said, and it seemed to Meg that his voice was still tinged with amusement. Of course, for him there was nothing to disapprove of. Her gaping at him would rather cause him to feel smug. But Meg promised to herself that this was the last time she let her eyes wander like that. From now on, she would restrict her gazes to his face – if this wasn't reason enough for another blush, that was.

He led her on towards the cluster of lights, and soon the space between rock wall and water became wider and then began to show signs of inhabitation. Illumined by candles, there were two narrow store cupboards looking suspiciously like those she had seen in the laundry chamber, and a table that originally stood in the cantina, as it seemed. The ornate chair beside it, not quite matching with the plain wooden table, strongly reminded Meg of one she seen in a stage production before, many years ago, though she could not exactly recall which. There was another table further on, small and half-circular and pushed against the wall, with sheets of paper covered in writing piled high on it, and a massive, brass-bound chest close beside it.

And there were the mirrors, the cracked mirrors. As her eyes fell on them, Meg realized that they had now arrived at the place where she had been yesterday, where she had found the mask. She recognized the table with the stage model on it, crowded with small painted figures, and the harmonium, but the niche in which she had seen the strange dummy figure was now hidden from view by a curtain. All looked just as she had last seen it. Had the angry mob not come here at all? Or had he already tidied up the jumble they might have caused? However, she was sure that the black boat pulled ashore a few paces away, with its decorations reminding her of a Venetian gondola, had not been here the day before.

He brushed aside another curtain, revealing a short, narrow corridor like a crack in the wall, which quickly widened into a small chamber. Rows of hanging clothes lined the walls, except on the right-hand side, where there were several shelf-boards piled with more items of clothing, and a collection of various boots waited underneath them. So this was where the Phantom kept his fancy attires. Had she not been scared of him still, she would have immediately started searching around in his things.

"I'll find you something dry to wear", he said, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes as he started going through his store. "I can't be providing you with dresses currently, but from what I saw yesterday, I judge you will not take offence."

"So it _was_ you I saw last night", Meg said, excited like a little girl about the idea to try on some of his things. She only hoped that there was a mirror somewhere to be found that was not too cracked to properly regard herself in it.

He paused, turning to look at her. "I think not", he answered, frowning. "I was well hidden."

"But I think I saw your eyes for a moment." He had to know; after all, she had panicked and run from him because she had realized he was there. "You were standing in the entrance to that large room, I think, and I was getting the impression that you were coming after me."

The look he gave her was thoughtful. "Which room exactly?" he asked after a moment.

"Along that corridor forking off a bit further from here", she described the way, willing herself to look at him steadily and trying hard to push all thoughts about his appearance out of her mind. "Then down the stairs, then along another corridor. It's a large room really; I couldn't see the other end when I came in. There's a pair of angels carved into the stone, one on either side of the entrance. It's quite empty, and it's covered in dust, and surprisingly quite dry."

"That is impossible", he said slowly. "Unless…" Then he visibly jerked himself out of his ponderings and turned his attention on selecting clothes for her again, leaving what had just been on his mind unspoken. "I wasn't down there last night", he finished, his back turned to her.

"Oh." Meg felt more embarrassment flood her. "I must have imagined it, then."

He shrugged. "Maybe not", he replied enigmatically, but left his remark unexplained. "Here, I think this might fit you more or less. And it might go together with this", he added, picking up something from one of the boards. "Any chance anything of what you're wearing is left dry?"

"I'm afraid not", Meg answered, more than ever aware of the cold. Why wasn't he shivering in his wet things?

"Well", he said, tugging a rebellious lock behind his ear"I'll have to find you some more things, then." Soon he presented an armful of clothes. "Try those", he said. "You can get changed in here; I'll wait outside. No, wait a minute." Depositing the pile on one of the boards, he slipped out past her and soon returned with an armful of towels, which bore remarkable likeness to those she knew from her own quarters. "Your mother wouldn't be delighted if I let you catch a cold", he remarked, handing them over. "She might even –" Suddenly he paused, and his eyes lit up with what seemed to be a most amusing recollection. "Say, did she ever… box your ears?"

"Box my ears?" Meg repeated, surprised that he would ask such a thing. "No, not really… but it's a regular threat of hers."

"I see." The tiny smile from before was back. Meg wondered what this phrase meant to him. Surely her mother had not threatened to do so with him? No, this was completely out of the question. "Oh, and there is something I almost forgot", he added, putting a piece of bright scarlet on top of the pile. "Needless to say, it's well washed." Snatching up a few items for himself, he left the room with another little bow.

Meg was glad to be able to peel off her wet clothes at last and rub herself dry. The air was still chilly down here, but not as cold as it had felt when she had still worn her soaked dress. Her hair would take some time to dry completely, but at least she could do something about the rest now. When she had finished drying herself, she gingerly approached the pile of clothes he had prepared for her. The mere thought of wearing things belonging to the Phantom was absolutely outrageous. He would kill people before giving them his –

She picked up the scarlet thing, and realization hit her like a hammer. Oh. At first she felt another blush coming up, then she broke into soft giggles. So this was what the Phantom wore for underwear. It looked like a pair of shorts, made of a light, elastic fabric similar to what their male ballet colleagues wore…

And then a violent giggling fit forced her to steady herself against a wall with one hand, clutching the towel around her tightly with her elbows. One of her colleagues, a nice young fellow named Xavier, had indeed had such a scarlet pair of tights, which he had regularly worn for training. He had been rather fond of them, too, Meg recalled. Until one day, about a year ago, when he had informed them, seemingly upset, that someone had broken into his locker. Nothing had been taken, except part of his scarlet tights – he had only found the neatly cut-off legs, or most of them, while the rest was gone and nowhere to be found. One of the girls had mentioned the Phantom, but the others had all laughed at that. After all, they had reasoned, what would the Phantom go and cut ballet tights for? Now Meg knew, and the knowledge was enough to fill her with mirth for a week. Xavier would never in his life guess what had really happened to his favourite tights!

Still giggling to herself, yet not without a slightly guilty feeling towards Xavier, Meg pulled the maimed tights on. Actually, she decided with another little twinge of guilt, they were quite comfortable. Then she inspected the rest of the pile. A shirt, a jacket, trousers, boots, even a pair of socks… it seemed he had thought of everything. Meg got dressed hurriedly, then left the chamber to look for a convenient mirror. Walking in boots several sizes too large was not that easy, but she assumed that she would get used to it soon enough. The boots she had borrowed yesterday had been smaller – which meant that it had really just been a strange fancy of hers, that the Phantom couldn't be her father. Anyway, he looked younger than her father ought to be.

Stepping in front of one of the golden-framed stand-mirrors along the wall and positioning herself so that her reflection was not too badly distorted by the cracks, she studied what she saw. Altogether, it looked not too bad. Of course, the clothes were too large for her, but she still liked what she saw; she liked it better than the dress, when she considered it. Quite a lot better. When wearing a dress, she was just another young girl, one among many. Yet in a man's clothes, she felt… dashing, adventurous. And this excitement even increased when she remembered who the things she was currently wearing belonged to.

Her mother would have something to say about this, but for now, Meg did not care. For now… she felt good.

There was a faint sound of movement behind her, and then the Phantom appeared in the mirror right at her shoulder. How lightly he walked for such a tall, muscular man, even when wearing heavy boots! Due to the cracks in the glass, his reflection was blurred, but it was obvious enough that he, too, had changed into dry clothes, because the shirt he now wore was red. "Comfortable?" he asked, and his voice coming from behind her made the tender hair at the back of her neck stand on end.

"Fine", she assured him. "Thank you."

"It suits you", he stated, moving closer to her. "You should dress up more often."

Meg thought she could almost feel him behind her, and once again the heat settled in her cheeks. She turned so that she could at least see what he was doing – and realized that he was even closer than she had assumed, only one pace from her. Too close. Much too close. The heat increased. Trying to be at her ease, Meg took a careful step backwards and forced the corners of her mouth into a friendly, noncommittal smile, hoping for once that the blush would not come.

Again that smile appeared on his face in response, that tiny smile of amusement, of inward laughter at something very obvious. He knew exactly what was going on inside her. Meg wanted to slap him, Phantom or not. He had no right to grin at her embarrassment like that!

His smile broadened a fraction, and he raised his eyebrows at her, or at least the one that was not hidden behind the mask – and immediately the blush was coming back. Meg lowered her eyes from his face and glared at the delicate thread-of-gold embroidery on his red shirt instead. It was rather loose, as she saw now, and possessed what would be, on a woman, considered a generous cleavage; maybe it could not be exactly called indecent on a man, but it still left too much of his chest exposed for her taste, especially since there were a few small buttons he could have done up. Somehow Meg got the nasty suspicion that he was doing this just because of her.

Clearing her throat, she tried to recall what he had last said. Oh yes, he had complimented her… Why did he have to do that? Was he embarrassing her on purpose? "Thank you", she answered as evenly as she managed to. "It's quite comfortable, but I couldn't wear it all the time. It would surely cause comment, and my mother would never allow it. She wasn't too pleased yesterday, too."

"Right, I think I can see the problem. So you'll have to stay in a corset, poor you."

"You get used to it", Meg said, still avoiding his eyes.

"Really?" He sounded doubtful.

"Does it look that bad to you, or what?"

"Well… let's say I tried one on, many years ago."

Meg couldn't believe her ears. "You did _what?_"

He shrugged. "It was a bit of a joke really, and I was just a boy then. Your mother was showing me where the old costumes were kept, so I could select some spare clothes for myself, and there was that truly horrible dress, all pink and frilly… I laughed about it and said it might just fit me, and she said she would have to stuff me into a corset if I wanted to try it on, and, well, we did just that."

Imagining the Phantom in a frilly dress, and her mother putting him into a corset, Meg giggled. "What did you look like?"

"Stupid. And my old rags were more comfortable."

"I didn't realize you knew my mother that well."

"She's a friend." Obviously he did not want to say too much about his past, although he had just revealed a rather curious fact. "Come with me, now."

Further along what might be called the underground lake's shore, he had a fire going in a crude kind of fireplace, and they sat down beside it, their wet clothes hanging nearby to dry. Grateful for the warmth, Meg snuggled into her cushioned armchair, avoiding to look at the Phantom too openly, who was lounging in another chair opposite hers. His trousers were rather tight, and he definitely had nice legs.

Why couldn't Christine have told her about that? She might have at least warned her.

"You remind me of your mother", he said suddenly. "When she was your age, I mean. Very much so. She was just as adventurous as you, and she had the same giggle." He smiled, his eyes unfocused, as if seeing something that wasn't there. "She was kind to me when no-one else was. Without her, I wouldn't be here now. She gave me all I have – well, a lot of it, at least. She might well have saved my life, too. I owe her much."

Meg could only stare at him. What was it he had just said? How could he have known her mother when she had still been a young girl? "Can I ask you something?" she began carefully. Maybe he would find the question too personal. "You needn't answer it if you don't want to", she added, just to make it clear that she was not in any way pressing him. He would not like that. When he gave her a little nod to continue, she took a deep breath, then said it at last: "How old are you, exactly?"

Her eyes flickered to his face worriedly, but luckily it seemed that he did not take offence. "Exactly, I don't know", he replied after a moment's consideration. "But if this is any help to you, I have been here for thirty-six years now, and I must have been around fifteen when I came here."

Meg stared at him in utter astonishment. "You… you look a great lot younger", she stated.

"I know." If there was any emotion hidden in the utterance of these two simple words, Meg did not sense it.

When she considered her situation, she was highly surprised at his behaviour. All the things he had done recently, and all the others of which rumour said he had done them, and there he lounged in an armchair, was altogether too much a pleasure to look at and chatted with her in a friendly way, like any other old friend of her mother's would. He did not look dangerous at all, except maybe for an occasional gleam in his eyes. Maybe he would accept that other question she was longing to ask, that one question that was still on her mind, that had always been since last night. "Did you by any chance… know my father?"

"Not well", he answered immediately, "but I did. As you probably know, he was, just like your mother, a ballet member, and a good one, at that. I regularly saw him at the performances, always in the front ranks, and always your mother's partner when they formed up into pairs. They got married, eventually, but their marriage did not last long."

"My mother told me he died in a riding accident after two years", Meg said.

"That's a simplified version, but I assume she doesn't like to talk about it. Well, there was something he regularly did apart from the ballet, and this was horse-racing. He was quite successful, and he was well aware of that. As a matter of fact, he became overly proud, boasted in front of the others. During one of those races, he shouted an insult at one of his opponents, and that one, a regular victim to his taunting, it seems, struck at him with his whip. It might not even have been a hard blow, yet it missed and hit the horse in the eye, and the horse reared and threw your father off. And one of his fellow contestants' horse following at full gallop could not be stopped in time and ran over him, or maybe he was back on his feet already and it reared, I'm not quite sure about it. What I know for certain is that its hooves smashed his skull." When Meg winced, he added: "He must have died instantly and without suffering, if this is any consolation to you."

Meg nodded gratefully. Now her doubts were quelled. Yes, she _did_ have a father after all, even if her mother refused to tell her much about him. Something else was still bothering her, though. "And what is the relationship between you and my mother?" she blurted out before she could stop herself. No, she couldn't ask him that! "I mean", she hastily added, "how comes you know her?"

"That's a long story", he said, and Meg knew that she would not hear it. "You might sum it up like this: Your mother saved me from torture and humiliation when I was a boy and brought me here to hide me, and I've lived here ever since." With yet another of those small smiles, he added: "And I'm not and never was her lover, if this is what you dread."

"I wasn't thinking of that", Meg assured him hastily, feeling the heat in her cheeks increase violently once more, but she was not sure if he really believed her.

For some time they sat in silence, but it was not an awkward one. With some surprise, Meg realized that she trusted him and that his company was soothing her. Maybe he would even be a friend one day, just like he seemed to be to her mother.

"You know", he began after some time, and the sudden strange and clearly false lightness of his tone told her what was coming, "I just wondered if you'd seen Christine recently. Since yesterday, I mean."

At first she wanted to deny it, but somehow she felt that he would be able to detect a lie, especially if it was about Christine. "I just returned from seeing her", she answered carefully.

"Is she well?" There was a strong tenderness in those few words, as well as sadness.

"Yes", Meg answered truthfully, not sure if this was the right thing to say. "Yes, she is well." Their eyes met for an instant, and his bored into hers, and at once she found herself telling him about her and Christine's time in the city this afternoon, with some detail. He listened eagerly, almost hungrily, occasionally nodding or sometimes even smiling to himself, but never interrupting. She tried neither to mention Raoul nor where Christine was staying currently, but she assumed that he would be able to guess nonetheless.

"So she is getting married", he stated after she had finished. "I can read between the lines, you know."

Meg nodded, not looking at him.

"I feared she might." He sighed and turned to stare into the flames, his features outlined sharply by the light of the fire, as if hewn from marble. It seemed that suddenly the uncovered side of his face was even more a mask than the one covering the other side.

The texture of the air seemed to change. Although it was comfortably warm by the fire, Meg suddenly thought that she was breathing thin, sharp ice crystals. Was it still safe to be around the Phantom? She began to doubt it. "My mother is waiting for me", she said slowly, carefully. Who knew what might make him turn into a killer once more? "Down here in the cellars, I mean. I think I should maybe return to her."

He nodded assent immediately, and Meg assumed that he was glad to be alone once more. "Tell me where she is waiting, and I'll take you to her, so you won't take any more unexpected detours. You can have your things back another time."

Once more he led her through dark, wet corridors, but this time he took a candle with him. They did not pass the treacherous water hole again, and Meg wondered how many corridors there were exactly.

Her mother was still waiting where she had left her, a lantern in her hand, and she raised her eyebrows at her when she saw what she was wearing. Meg stared back defiantly, but her mother did not pay her much attention, but addressed the Phantom instead. "I'm sorry for my daughter's curiosity and her desire to take a souvenir." Meg's stare turned indignant.

"The latter is forgiven", he answered. "And as for curiosity… You were once a curious little girl, too, remember? There is much of you in her."

Her mother smiled, seemingly forgetting about Meg completely. "And you were a curious little boy, too, weren't you? How well I remember… But you will keep our agreement in mind, will you? Don't draw attention to yourself, remain concealed for some time?"

"I will. I promise."

Her mother touched his shoulder for a moment. "Be safe."

He bowed his head, smiling fondly, then, with a nod at Meg, turned to go. "Wait", Meg said quickly.

He stopped, his eyes resting on her calmly. The fierce gleam was gone from his eyes, as was the icy feeling around him. Only a sense of sadness remained.

Maybe this was what made Meg do it, despite her mother watching her. Standing on tiptoe, she quickly kissed him on the uncovered cheek. "Thank you", she whispered. "For everything."

For a moment his features bore a look of clear surprise, which was quickly replaced by the same warm fondness they had shown towards her mother. "You can keep the stuff if you like", he said. "I have plenty more to wear. Except – oh, you can probably guess what. I'm rather attached to those." As he leaned down to her, she for once enjoyed the feeling of heat his proximity produced in her. His lips brushed her forehead lightly, then he stepped back and blew out the candle, and the darkness quickly swallowed him.

Remembering what Christine had first deemed him to be, Meg said: "He's an angel."

Her mother sighed. "Yes, but a fallen angel, and far from Heaven."


	9. II The Prison of my Mind

**II. The Prison of my Mind**

_A fallen angel, and far from Heaven._

Just as his night sight, the Phantom's sense of hearing should not be underestimated. He had heard those last few words only too well. And he had silently agreed. Until a short time ago, he had been Christine's Angel of Music, but now… He had fallen so far that there was no Heaven for him anymore. Never again.

Sitting down in front of the harmonium, he played a few notes, but his heart was not in it. His world seemed so empty now, so hollow, ready to collapse like a card house any moment. The burning pain inside him had begun to dull to a weary sensation of loss, sometimes becoming gloomy lethargy, yet always ready to rise up again and overwhelm him anew. Maybe the time would come when he would finally be able to forget – or else just lie down and die. There was nothing left for him, anyway. Nothing in this world. Maybe he would be granted a new, better life in another world.

Probably not, but it did not matter. Eternal, dreamless sleep, without ever waking again, would be better than this, than endlessly tormenting himself with his mad, desperate love.

At least Christine was happy. That was a lot more important than his own feelings.

But that she had chosen such an immature little lump of slime over him… What did this boy have that he had not?

Everything, he thought bitterly. The young fool could give Christine a family, a home, a good name, all the money she wanted, a place in society… whereas he, what could he offer her? What could he truly offer her? His music, his passionate love… and a dark, damp home she would have to share with the sewer rats, between old stage props and smoking candles. Not to mention a lover who had to hide his face from the world, doomed to dwell in the shadows forever. He could not do this to her.

And still, he longed so much to have her back…

"That's just you again", he told himself, rising from his seat and wandering aimlessly along the shore, "always wanting what you can't have." His eyes were wandering as well, but without ever focusing. "There's nothing for you. Nothing, do you hear? Not a damn thing!" Picking up a piece of rock, hehurled it over the water hard, so that it hit the metal grating on the other side, bounced off it with a high, pained clang and then fell into the water with a splash.

Had he done this the night before, it occurred to him, the piece of rock would have hit that arrogant little fop. Yes, he had tied him up there, and the boy had been too surprised to truly resist. When he thought of it, his fingers twitched. How he would have enjoyed killing the whelp, him and the rest of his kind, all of them, the whole world! But in the end, he could not have done so. Not with Christine suffering so much. She would have been ready to spend the rest of her life down here with him, just to save that worthless idiot's life. But he could not have forced her to stay.

He hated himself for his own softness, and at the same time, he equally hated himself for feeling that way.

What now? It was pointless to avoid the question any longer. What should he do now? Where would he go from here? The only friend he still had left here wanted him to stay, and he assumed he would do as she wanted – not just because she wanted it, but because there simply was nowhere else to go. Or had she imagined he would knock at another opera house's door and ask if they had any use for him? _Excuse me, are you by any chance looking for a Ghost? I know the business, and I don't ask for much, I'll even sleep in the cellar…_ Throwing back his head, he laughed, hollowly and mirthlessly. No, he would stay, he would stay until he rotted.

After all, this was _his_ opera house.

And there was still a friend around, someone who cared at least a little. No, this did not do her justice. Someone who really cared; he had to be honest. Even though she had threatened to box his ears. Somehow it was oddly comforting, having somebody around who was still willing to box his ears while the rest wished to see him hang.

He clenched his fists. They would never see him hang!

And little Meg, of course. The girl was so very much like her mother. He had been surprised at himself, about the way he had treated her and how he had spoken to her. After all, he had never truly come face to face with her before, except when she had been a baby and her mother had allowed him to hold her for some time. But he had seen her mother in her, and her mother was a friend, so he had treated her as a friend as well. And maybe she truly would be from now on. He hoped she would. It would feel so good to have another friend.

However, he should not forget himself so much again. The way he had behaved this afternoon… From now on, he would keep a tighter check on himself. A much tighter check.

But still… he had to admit to himself that he had enjoyed her attention. All those years, he had willed himself to be strong, and now he had found what a relief it could be if he allowed himself to be weak for once.

He wished it had been Christine who had held him in her arms. Between them, she had always been the one to yield to him, but now he wished just for once to take this part, to be the one to give in to her… to be just held by her, nothing else. Maybe things would have been different if he had shown her weakness as well as strength; maybe he would have won her trust, then…

Enough of this, he scolded himself. He could not afford to be weak, even if he sometimes longed to be. "You're a complete failure", he muttered angrily. "Now go to bed, before you come up with any more stupid ideas!"

Yes, he would try to find some sleep now. Those few hours in the afternoon could hardly have been enough, and it must be late at night already outside.

Pulling off his boots and his shirt, he crawled under the blankets. It was cold down here, especially in winter, but the blankets were warm… and besides, he was lying exactly on the spot where Christine had once lain, and this was enough to keep him warm.

His mask was the last thing he took off, and he placed it on the pillow beside him. As long as he was alone, there was no need for it really, but he would have to endure his reflection in the mirrors, and he refused to. When he wore the mask, he found himself agreeing with his appearance – and so had little Meg, it seemed –, but without it… never. Knowing about his marred face was loathsome enough; he didn't have to see it all the time as well. There were some kinds of pain which never faded away.

And they made other kinds of pain only stronger. Oh, Christine…

Normally, he would have checked on her before he fell asleep. Over the years, he had become so used to touching her mind that he could do it from down here, without having to see her. Wherever she was, he had learned to pinpoint her exact location in the entire opera house, and her dreams were open to him from anywhere in the building. Every night, he had entered her dreams, made sure she slept peacefully, mentally caressed her, chased away her nightmares. Only then had he allowed himself to fall asleep, savouring the feeling of her closeness as he drifted off into dreams himself.

He was still aware of her now, but she was a lot further away, so the feeling of her was very faint. But it was there clearly. He could have found her by just following his feeling of her.

Could she still feel him as well? She had been aware of his presence, of course, and while it had slightly frightened her during the day, she had clearly enjoyed his watching over her at night. There had been no fear in her then, only trust… trust in an angel who was no angel, but a demon from hell.

Almost automatically, he reached out towards her as he closed his eyes. Her mind was still open to him; he doubted there was any way to deny him access. Over a greater distance, it was less easy to read her, but he knew her well enough to still be able to. She was still awake, but close to falling asleep, and she was tired, but happy, yet at the same time, she was… sad? No, this could not be, he was imagining things. He concentrated once again, but the feeling remained.

He would have to check on her, he told himself. Stay out of sight, watch her, make sure she was well. These cellars, these dungeons might be his prison, but he was not confined to them. She would probably be able to sense his presence, but after some time, when she saw that he meant no harm to her, she might once more find comfort in his being close.

Don't be a fool, he growled at himself, you gave her every reason to hate you!

But he would not give up hope. He would make sure she was happy, and if he found she was not, that insolent, slimy son of a monkey was going to pay for it.

Reaching out to her tenderly, he began caressing her the way he had always done. Maybe he would hide from the world for some time, pretend to be dead, put a wall between him and the rest of them… No, not a wall, because he would still be watching. A veil, this was more like it. But whatever he did, he would still be there for her.

Slowly, the pattern of her mind began to change, until he felt that she was peacefully asleep now. He smiled. Old habits were so hard to break… And now it was time for another old habit. Curling up, he let Christine's presence fill him as he, too, slowly began to drift over into dreams, a lot fainter than usual, but still strong enough to make him feel warm inside.

Completely caught up in this private moment of bliss, he did not realize that a pair of luminous green eyes was watching him from afar.


	10. III Anywhere you go

**III. Anywhere you go**

Yawning widely, Raoul climbed into bed, snuggling in beside Christine. "Very well, my love, what do we do now?" he whispered in her ear.

"Sleep, I suggest", Christine answered, resting her head against his shoulder.

"Nothing else?" he asked, snickering.

"Raoul! We're not married yet!"

"You didn't say that yesterday", he protested, very much in the tone of a pouting child.

"Yes… but yesterday was special. And besides, I'm really tired."

"Alright, if you insist…" Raoul sighed regretfully and put an arm around her. "Mind if I cuddle you?"

"I'd appreciate it. But try not to stick your elbow into my face again, will you?"

Raoul looked down at her in surprise. There was not much he could see, except a mane of dark curls. "Did I ever?"

Christine giggled into his shoulder. "Why, last night. But of course, you didn't notice. Just like those times when you pulled the blanket away."

"I did?"

"Of course you did. You just didn't wake up while doing so."

"Oh. Sorry. I didn't realize that."

Christine put an arm around him in turn. "Never mind. Just expect me to wake you when you try to do any of it again."

"Right", Raoul muttered, stifling another yawn. "If I get snuggled before I fall asleep again, fine by me." Already on his back, he shifted his position slightly so that he lay more comfortable, and Christine automatically adjusted hers. "There's something I'd like to talk about, though, before we fall asleep."

Christine reached up to caress his cheek. "Not another idea of going abroad in just what we stand up in?"

Raoul sighed. "No." Sometimes he got the idea that he was not taken entirely seriously. "It's about the promise you gave me today. I'd like you to keep it in mind."

"Why, of course. If it means so much to you, I will. After all, I promised."

Raoul frowned into the darkness. "I think you still don't see the danger."

"To be honest, no."

"After all you've been through?" Why wouldn't she admit that she could still become the target of another assault from the same madman? If he could only make sure she was completely safe!

Christine was silent for a while, and he thought that she might have seen his point finally. Then, at last, she whispered: "There is something I didn't tell you."

Raoul's breath caught. Something she had kept from him? Why would she keep anything from him? How could she – No, she had every right to have secrets, he corrected himself, although his indignation did not quite go away immediately. Of course she didn't have to tell him everything. He just wished she would, so he could share everything with her, every part of her mind…

_Very well, but did _you_ tell her everything you might have told her,_ a nasty little voice somewhere inside his head asked. _Like about your brief encounters with a few other women before her? What about that? Or that you only just don't take her away to the country mason because you're afraid of what your mother might say? _He sighed. No, he could not ask more of her than he asked of himself. He was not being fair. Christine had every right to keep her secrets. He was not going to intrude.

"Are you angry?" she asked, raising her head to look at him, obviously misunderstanding his silence, and her tone was slightly tinged with worry.

"No, no", he hastened to assure her. "Of course not. I won't ever be angry at you."

She snuggled back into his embrace comfortably. "That's very sweet of you."

"What is it you wanted to tell me about?" Raoul asked, then hurried to add: "Not that I'm trying to press you, of course."

"It's…" She hesitated, and he felt her shiver slightly against his body. "It's about him. The Phantom, I mean. Something I've been reluctant to tell you."

"You still are", he stated.

"I'm so sorry, Raoul. Please don't think that I don't trust you."

"No, I would never think so", he protested, pulling her as close as he could. "It's I who should be sorry. Really. I shouldn't force you to tell me everything."

"But I want to", she whispered. "I want to very much. It's just… I don't truly understand it."

"I will try to do so", he promised, almost wincing at the stab of guilt he felt. She wanted to tell him everything, whereas he…

He heard her draw a deep breath. "There's a kind of bond between the Phantom and me." She said it very quickly, as if in a hurry to get it out, and after it was said, Raoul felt her relax a little in his arms. "I can feel him. Now I'm far away from him, the sensation is very weak, but I'm still aware of him. I can feel what he feels. And I think if I followed the sensation, it would lead me to him."

"You know", Raoul said, "I think that's the best thing I've heard during the last few hours." Imagining how irritated she must be now, he almost snickered mischievously, but then gave himself a hard mental kick. He wasn't going to play with her. Not with her. "He can't surprise you", he explained. "Because you'll know when he's trying to sneak up on you, won't you? Christine, that's _brilliant_!"

"Yes, I certainly would", she replied, making his mind flood with relief, "but it's the connection I worry about. I don't understand. It frightens me, but at the same time… You know, I've actually known him for years without ever seeing him. I told you about my Angel, but you didn't believe me at first. He did not only speak to me when I was alone, he was in my dreams, too. And I could feel his presence, sometimes more, sometimes less. But it's never been as steady as it is now. Ever since…" She hesitated and cleared her throat. "Ever since I kissed him", she finished in a rush.

Raoul pondered this all in wonder. He had never heard anything alike, and he had to admit to himself that he understood it all no more than she claimed she did. "I'm sorry", he said at last.

"For what?"

"For not believing you in the first place."

"That's alright. Meg didn't believe me at first, too."

"And you think you can tell what he's up to?" Raoul asked hopefully.

"I'm not sure. It's just feelings I sense, not what he's thinking."

"Let's hope this is enough." Raoul did not quite understand what she was telling him there, but he certainly understood about the uses of it. "So what do you feel at the moment?" he asked curiously.

Christine shuddered slightly. "Pain. So much pain. And despair. There is a bit of hope, I think, but only a very tiny speck, if any. It makes me sad."

"Why, that's jolly good", Raoul said. "If he were hopeful, he might have found some way to put his hands on you, and we don't want that. That calms me very much. And it should be the same for you. This is good news, really." Again he suppressed a yawn. "But still… I'd still like you to stick to your promise. I want to be with you always. Wherever you are. I don't want to leave you out of my eyeshot for long. Not ever. I need to have you with me."

"That's sweet, Raoul."

"I really mean it. I'll be with you wherever you are. But now –" This time he was unable to fight back the yawn. "Now I think I'm going to sleep. Good night, my love. Sweet dreams."

"Good night, Raoul." Was he only imagining things, or was her tone slightly… subdued? But he was too tired to think clearly now. Maybe tomorrow. Yes… Tomorrow… He fell asleep.


	11. IV Wishing I could hear your Voice again

**IV. Wishing I could hear your Voice again**

Christine lay quite still in the darkness, listening to Raoul's calm, steady breathing beside her. He did not understand. Of course he did not. What else had she expected? She loved him, and very much so, but there were just a few things he would never truly understand. Like music, for example. Or her relationship to the Phantom.

It was not that he didn't try. He just failed to see the point, without really noticing he did so.

The sensation somewhere at the back of her head stayed the same, a feeling of grief. Raoul was convinced this was a good thing, but how could she possibly feel happy or relieved with _this_ in her head? Maybe there was a way to ignore the feeling, to make it less strong, but she did not know how.

Once again Raoul had overlooked an important detail: Had she not cared at all about the Phantom, she would not have had any trouble ignoring what she felt, or maybe only a little bit. But the problem was, she _did_ care. It all was a lot more complex than Raoul pictured it to be. What Raoul saw was that she had made her choice, that she was happy about it, and therefore that there was no more Phantom for her. Of course she was happy with Raoul, no question of this, but it didn't mean that she could just forget about the Phantom. Raoul always forgot that their relationship had not begun the day when she had first seen him in the mirror, but many years earlier, and how important he had been to her. After all, he had been her Angel of Music, and he had taught her all she knew. Without him, she would still be just another ballet girl. And he had not only been her teacher, he had listened to her joys and sorrows as well, and he had watched over her dreams. He had been there for her whenever she had needed him. Apart from Meg, her Angel had been her best friend.

Why did it have to end like this? When she looked back on it now, she found herself wishing that she had never learned who the Angel of Music truly was, that he would still just appear in her dreams and speak to her when she was alone, and continue teaching her, although he had said that there was not much she could learn from him anymore. She wished to have her Angel back, her friend and guardian.

True, she had Raoul now, but Raoul was different. Raoul was the man she loved, whereas her Angel… One could say that she had loved him, too, although in a different way. Until the day he had first appeared in the mirror, there had been nothing physical about him for her, and the love she felt for him had been very much the one for her dear father's memory. His gentle voice speaking to her had made the loss easier to bear – indeed, after she had found out that there was no Angel, that old wound had seemed to break open again.

Yes, she reminded herself, there was no Angel, and there had never been one. It had been a lie, and nothing more.

But she was grateful for that lie. She had practically built up all she had on it.

It had been a shock to learn the truth… but not as much as Raoul or Meg assumed, maybe. Although she was reluctant to admit it, there had been something about the Phantom irresistibly attracting her, a strange kind of fascination she did not quite understand. Maybe if it had not been for Raoul, if Raoul had not re-entered her life just then, she would have lain in the Phantom's arms now, instead of his.

It was a strange thought, irritating and, to a certain extent, frightening. To imagine lying in bed beside a man who was ready to kill to make her his alone, and who had indeed done so… He had not only wanted to guard her, he had desired to possess her, her body as well as her mind.

Yet in the end, he had set her free, her and Raoul… because he loved her.

And when she thought of last night now, she felt nothing but pity for him and his dark fate.

It was then that she felt him, stronger than before, touching her mind as he had done every night for years now, except the last. God, how she had feared she would never feel his presence again –

Shocked at her feelings, she tried to ignore him. It was the power he had over her, his influence that made her think so!

But then again, he was far away, he could not hurt her now. And his touch was… calming, soothing. Surely there was nothing wrong with it when she just, only for this time, allowed him to?

There would be a next time if she gave in now, she suspected… but as long as he was far away… no harm would come from it… and Raoul was with her, wasn't he? So she was not breaking her promise… and it didn't matter, anyway… nothing mattered, not tonight… not ever… her Angel was back… even if he was no Angel, but she did not care… and she had become just so used to yielding to his touch…

Sheltered in Raoul's physical embrace as well as the Phantom's mental one, Christine finally fell asleep.


	12. V In this Labyrinth

**V. In this Labyrinth**

Later on, Madame Giry was not quite sure why she returned to the cellars early in the next morning. There was something on her mind that bothered her, a strong feeling of uneasiness, of worry, which she could not really explain, and which made her want to seek out an old friend. At this time of day, she would surely find him in his lair, probably still asleep. After all, she knew his routine. He stayed up until late at night usually, sometimes got up again as night was growing old, only to go to sleep once more before the sky paled, and his day began somewhere around midmorning. He was perfectly attuned to the Opera Populaire's rhythm.

At this time of day, the corridors were deserted. There were yet two more hours until the cantina would open its doors. On her way down to the cellars, Madame Giry met no living soul. All the same, she took a careful look around before she pressed the catch which let a wall panel slide aside to create a narrow opening, from where a winding staircase led on into the darkness – or at least, it normally led into darkness. Now, there came a faint, reddish glow of light from below.

Frowning slightly, Madame Giry stepped through and slid the panel shut behind her. This way, she did not have to light a candle, but on the other hand… what was he up to?

Descending hurriedly, her feeling of uneasiness increased. What on earth was he doing there? Why that eerie, unnatural light? And why, for Heaven's sake, at this time in the morning, and in this place?

The stairs ended in a dusty stone chamber, and Madame Giry stopped dead. Where she had expected to find just one man, there were seven, all garbed in dark colours. While five of them were crouching around a lantern casting a strange red light over them, two stood directly opposite the stairwell, facing her, both in black cloaks and what reminded Madame Giry of medieval costumes, mostly held in browns and greys.

"Good morning", one of them said pleasantly, bowing his head in greeting. He was neither short nor tall, and he would not have stood out in a crowd. Madame Giry estimated him to be in his late thirties or early forties. "How may we be of assistance?" He wore a sheathed, long-bladed knife on his broad leather belt, she noticed.

"We know who you are looking for", his companion said, a tall man with broad shoulders, who spoke in a lazy, drawling tone. He, too, would not have drawn much attention by his blond hair he wore cut short, his pale eyes or his features – except for the scars. Five long, narrow gauges ran across the right side of his face, from immediately below the hairline down to his chin, like the marks of a clawed hand dragged through his features. The line from the smallest finger only began at the side of his nose, and the thumb-line below his temple, at about the height of the ear, but the others marred his forehead, two even disappearing into his hair. Ring-finger and middle finger had only very narrowly cleared his eye at either side. Madame Giry shuddered. What creature had a hand like this, a hand that could cause such wounds?

Behind them, a man stirred, about to rise to his feet, but another held him back.

"What business do you have with him?" the man with the horribly scarred face asked coldly. He had pulled his black cloak tightly around himself, yet Madame Giry suspected that he was armed just as well. "Be quick with your answer, woman, or –"

He was silenced by the other man raising his black-gloved right hand. Only one glove, Madame Giry saw. His other hand was left bare. "Don't do what you'll regret later on. Think of your Master."

For a moment, the scar-faced stranger's features twitched, but then they froze again. "Very well", he said evenly. "Allow us to introduce ourselves. I am known as Adhemar, and this is Aeternus." He used the Latin pronunciation of the latter name, instead of the French, and his companion inclined his head slightly as he was mentioned. "We are here for the same reason as you, as we presume: to find the man they call the Phantom."

Madame Giry drew a ragged breath, willing herself to look him straight in the face. "What do you want with him?"

"Worried, are you?" Adhemar said mockingly. "What does he mean to you?"

"He is my friend", Madame Giry replied firmly, though shaking inside. Who were those sinister strangers, and what did they want?

"So he is to us", said Adhemar, the corners of his mouth shifting into a smile which was rather a grimace, because one of the scars pulled the right corner of his mouth downwards slightly when his features moved. "Our own flesh and blood. Our kin."

Before Madame Giry could stop herself, her eyes slid over towards Aeternus, scanning his features for any kind of scars, yet there were none to be perceived. Then, very suddenly, something else occurred to her, and her eyes wandered down to his hand, his one gloved hand…

"Indeed", Aeternus said softly, his blue eyes glittering as he moved his hidden fingers slightly. "This is the mark I bear, the mark distinguishing me as a Lost One."

"Yet you keep it hidden." There was a small hint of anger in Adhemar's voice, Madame Giry realized, just as if what Aeternus did was not right, in his own opinion.

"Some things better stay hidden", Aeternus replied calmly.

Madame Giry found herself looking at the crouching men behind them now. Did they, too, have such markings, such strange scars? Could it really be possible that the Phantom was not the only one, that he had… some kind of relatives?

Again Aeternus recognized what she was looking for. "Those are nothing but servants", he answered the unspoken question with a curt nod in their direction. "None of our kind."

Drawing a deep breath, and steeling herself, Madame Giry asked: "Are there any more?" The Phantom had never mentioned any of this. Did he know about these men's existence at all? And if he did, would he approve of their presence? She, for her part, certainly didn't. Yes, they might be friends of his, or at least meaning well in their seeking him, yet she did not like them at all. They were too dark, too threatening; there was an almost tangible feeling about them, of fear and… many more unpleasant sensations, but swirling around so much in her head that she could not name them.

She had to warn him, she thought desperately. First she had to find a way to get away from those sinister intruders, and then she had to warn him about them. But how? How? If she tried to run, would they harm her?

"Several, yes, and stronger than we are." Adhemar spoke reverently, almost with awe.

"Not all", Aeternus reminded him.

Again there was a note of anger detectable in Adhemar's voice. "But the Master is, and it is the Master who is most important."

"I do not doubt his importance, Adhemar."

"Why do you defy his orders, then?" Adhemar asked sharply. "Why do you keep your hand hidden?"

A thin smile crept onto Aeternus's features, and it was not a pleasant one. It seemed that he was speaking to Adhemar, but his eyes locked with Madame Giry's as he answered softly, pulling the glove away from his hand, "They say that the touch of Aeternus is the touch of Pestilence." As he held up his bare right hand into the light, Madame Giry almost screamed. For it was blackened and skeletal, the clawed hand of a long-rotten corpse.

There was a stir among the crouching men again, and urgent whispers. Adhemar, seemingly unmoved by the gruesome sight, stood aside and turned, and where his head had been, Madame Giry could now see something glowing in the twilight beneath the arch of the doorway on the opposite side of the chamber. In the red light of the lantern, a tall man's shape was outlined, nothing but a silhouette – except for his bright green eyes, which shone like a cat's in the dark.

"Ah, Lionel", Adhemar addressed the fearsome apparition. "Can we proceed?"

The voice speaking from the doorway was strangely raspy. "What I found is a labyrinth, but I will guide your way."

Immediately the servants were on their feet, and Adhemar and Aeternus turned to go. "So long, then", Aeternus said mockingly, offering Madame Giry a bow, while pulling his glove back on. "We will be sure to send him your fondest regards." Then they all disappeared into the gloom beyond the arch rapidly, taking their eerie lantern with them and leaving Madame Giry alone in the darkness, just as if she had stood there alone all the time, just as if what she seen and witnessed had been nothing but her own imagination.

What now? She would have to find her way back. The staircase was right behind her. No, don't panic now, don't panic. She would find her way back up, and then she would try another one to –

At once somebody grasped her from behind, and a strong, gloved hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her scream. She froze in terror, expecting to feel the touch of cold steel any moment…

And then a well-known voice whispered into her ear, making her sag against her captor in relief. "You weren't truly worrying about me, were you?"


	13. BOOK THREE: The Ashes of Glory

**Book Three: The Ashes of Glory**

**I. The Way Things might have been  
II. Trying too hard to put you from my Mind**

Author's Note: Once _again, thank you for all your kind reviews, and I hope all of you phangirls (see? I'm getting the hang of this!) enjoyed the Phantom's underpants._

_This is the shortest Book of all (though both chapters are considerably longer than the current average, I think), and the one that brings all the characters together, and also the last of the "opening Books" – after this is over, I know all the characters well enough, so we can leap headfirst into action. Yay! Well, as I am writing this, I have already leapt, but I'll let you come after me soon to have some fun in the darkness of the dungeons (and don't you go misunderstanding that – except for my girlfriend, of course, she can misunderstand it all she likes…)._


	14. I The Way Things might have been

**I. The Way Things might have been**

Once back in her room, Madame Giry collapsed onto her bed. "My God", she breathed. "What's going on?"

The Phantom remained standing, though he threw his black cloak over a chair. "I wonder."

"Do you have any idea who those… people are?"

"Not the slightest", he admitted.

Surprised, Madame Giry realized that to hear this from him was comforting. No, he had nothing to do with those sinister men, they were nothing but intruders. "What are you going to do about them?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Find out what their intentions are, then chuck them out if I don't like what I hear", he suggested. "That's what I feel like."

"Are you sure you can handle them on your own?" she asked worriedly. There were at least four of them, counting their mysterious Master, and how was she to know how many of those servants they had brought? And how dangerous they really were?

He stared at her pointedly, and suddenly a booming voice filled her head. _Do not forget who I am._

"I know", she sighed. "But that knowledge won't keep me from worrying about you."

Tugging at his jacket impatiently, he made an angry sound in his throat, something close to a snarl.

"Yes, alright", Madame Giry said before he had a chance to open his mouth, "I know you don't like to hear it, and I know you're perfectly capable of looking after yourself, and I don't regard you as a child, either. All I'm saying is that they look dangerous to me, and that I'm worried about your safety. And don't give me that look", she added as he grimaced, "because you can admit you're in trouble at least in front of me. Yes, you can, I mean it, so stop pouting."

"_Pouting_?" he hissed, his eyes flaring up dangerously. "Is this what you think?"

Madame Giry made herself meet his gaze stare for stare. True, he was very difficult to outstare, especially since one had to expect to be taken by some kind of strange feeling soon when trying to do so, but she reminded herself how she had seen him the day before, and that he would never harm her. "I think what I said", she replied evenly. Yes, and past time somebody finally told him straight out that he wasn't God and the saints all bundled together, for pity's sake!

There was an unpleasant sensation in the pit of her stomach suddenly, like a fist clenching around her intestines and pressing them together. At once her mind started reeling madly, swirling with torrents of thunderclouds. Her pulse was racing, and her palms moistened with sweat. Breathing became more and more difficult. Before her eyes, there were dancing specks of red and black, with bright yellow occasionally flashing up. The room swam in and out of focus as she tried to steady herself, but failed, and she sank towards the pillow –

Very abruptly it all stopped, and only a slight feeling of dizziness remained. She was lying sprawled on the bed, with the Phantom kneeling beside her, holding her hand and wearing an expression of concern. "Are you alright?" he asked somewhat breathlessly.

She assumed she was, but decided to let him stew for a bit. Whatever he thought he was, he had no right whatsoever to behave in this way towards her! "Where am I?" she asked back faintly, feeling that a question like this was definitely in place now.

"In your room, and it's around half past six in the morning", he answered immediately. "And we were just having a little argument about those unpleasant folks you met only a moment ago, remember?"

Now he didn't have to pretend that she was suffering from amnesia! But on the other hand, it showed that he was truly worried, which served him right. "Yes, I think so", she replied, then added, "dimly."

"I'm so sorry", he whispered, proving to her that he had a very bad conscience indeed – if he had any such thing, that was. "I didn't mean to, really."

"What did you do to me?"

"I don't know", he admitted. "I was just angry, I reckon."

Just angry. When he had cut down the chandelier, had he been _just angry_, too? Somebody able to do such things should be able to keep his temper in check just as well! Actually she felt like hitting him over the head with a broomstick, but despite his current meekness, such an action would be extremely unwise, so she settled for scolding instead. "Do you have any idea how serious this is?" she snapped, sitting up again. If she remained lying, it might well increase his worries, but it was just no position for scolding. "Continue like this, and you'll kill me next! What were you thinking, if you were thinking at all?" That last was a very useful question, which she frequently employed with the younger members of the Opera's ballet. "Until now I have always trusted you, although you didn't behave like you were exactly trustworthy, but after this display, I'm not sure anymore."

"Sorry", he repeated, not looking at her.

Madame Giry felt that a lot more of hard words were in order now, but she knew that there was a point from which on he wouldn't swallow them anymore, so she left it at that. At least she had made her point, and it had certainly had some effect on him. This was already more than it could normally be expected with him. "You're forgiven for this time", she told him, though with regrets – the broomstick, and just once, would have been so marvellously satisfying! "But don't you ever do that again."

"I won't", he promised, squeezing her hand he was still holding. She should have withdrawn it while scolding him, it occurred to her, because it somewhat spoiled the effect, but done was done.

"Sit", she told him, nodding at the bed, and he obediently did so straight away. No, not obediently, she reminded herself, but because he chose to. Whatever the reason, she felt a lot more comfortable if he sat beside her instead of towering over her. And a change of topic was called for, too. "How did you manage to be there so suddenly?"

"I waited on the stairs until they were gone."

"So you overheard most of the conversation, I presume?"

He nodded. "I followed you down, actually planning to catch up with you, but then remained hidden to listen. However, if they had decided to harm you in any way, I would have been there with you immediately."

"I don't doubt it", she said warmly, and indeed she did not. However he behaved if they were in private, he had always been there to protect her if she was in danger, and he would continue doing so. "But why were you following me?"

"Because I actually came up to see you in the first place."

"At this time in the morning?"

"I was going to warn you."

Of course, if anyone had known of the intruders, then it must have been him. She had been foolish to think that he might not. He was perfectly capable of looking after himself, of course – but still she worried about him.

"From my point of view, there are two options currently", he continued. "Either I wait somewhere up here and force them to come out into the open, or I go back down to deal with them. Each has its advantages just as well as its disadvantages."

So he had not only known about the intruders, but given their presence some consideration as well. Why was she underestimating him so much? Because of how she had seen him on the previous day? Well, maybe he possessed a soft core, very deep down, or at least a softened one at the current time, but this didn't mean that he had changed at all. She had to keep in mind who he was, and even more firmly than before.

"There is one thing I'm certain about, though", he said, with a sudden fierceness which almost made Madame Giry edge away from him. "That slimy green-eyed sneak dies."

She almost shuddered at the cruel determination in his voice. Indeed, she should not forget what he was capable of. "You mean the one who appeared in the opposite doorway? With those shining eyes?"

"I didn't see him, though I suspected so, but shining eyes sounds right. That would make him Lionel – and a dead man."

She looked at him, yet even though she saw the left side of his face, she might as well have seen the masked one, for his expression was unreadable. "Why?"

Instead of an answer, he stripped off his jacket and held out his left arm for her to see. The sleeve was torn from the elbow downwards, revealing a pair of thin, bloody scratches on his forearm.

"You had an encounter with him tonight." It was not a question.

His face was grim as he answered. "He tried to creep up on me while I was sleeping, but I woke in time to see him blowing out the candles – he doesn't like light, it seems – and he fled. I followed him, but it was difficult; his night sight seems to be perfect, and he must have a very sharp sense of hearing, and I think he knows his way around down there, which makes me somewhat uneasy. Although I reckon he might not be exactly intelligent. Once I caught up with him, but he jumped on me. I fought him off, and all I got is this, but he escaped. Half the night I've been giving chase, until I realized that there were more around, and that that creature – Lionel – was probably meant to lead me straight into their arms. So I came up here finally. To warn you. And I need to see your daughter. When she mentioned those eyes she had seen, I was already suspecting that there was something going on, but I wasn't sure then, though what she said confirmed my suspicions. Can I see her now?"

"I think she's still asleep." Had Meg really met that green-eyed… man last night? God, her own daughter in grave danger! And she had not known! "Don't go down again", she pleaded before she could stop herself. "Stay here, where he won't come looking for you! Not that I think you couldn't handle him", she added before he could get annoyed.

"So you want me to stay here and wait for them to come out? I'm not sure about it. It would mean to come out of my hiding, I'm afraid. Maybe that way they'll think twice before they strike at me – if this is what they intend; maybe they don't – but did it yet occur to you that I might be endangering others if I do so? You for example, and little Meg. Whatever they claim to be, you're the only friends I have." He paused, and Madame Giry knew only too well who he was thinking of now. "Maybe it's better she left", he said suddenly, yet his voice was tinged with bitterness. "For had she stayed, she would have been in danger. And I want her to be safe. Yes. And… happy." He fell silent, biting his lower lip, which trembled slightly.

To distract him from his grief, she frantically searched for another topic, but found none, except, "Should I clean those scratches, maybe?"

"Never mind."

"Have you yet gone to inspect the auditorium?" she tried. Not a good idea, either.

"No. And don't reproach me for the damage."

"It's not that bad, luckily. They're going to rebuild it, I think, although we might well stay closed down until the end of the season, if not longer." She sighed. No, they couldn't possibly do that. They simply _had_ to reopen. Or else… Or else she and many others would stand on the street, unemployed, with no idea how to earn a living now. Herself, she was better off, her earnings had been decent enough, and she might find a similar position somewhere else, yet many of the others… And all because a certain Phantom thought killing off people and cutting down chandeliers was a perfectly ordinary equivalent of throwing a tantrum! She found herself wishing for the broomstick again.

"You'll be threatening to box my ears any moment now, won't you?" he commented sarcastically, and she assumed that at least part of her emotions had been showing on her face. "You don't understand, and I don't care. Maybe you haven't yet been in love properly."

How dare he! "No, I was thinking of hitting you with a broomstick", she snapped truthfully. "And repeatedly, you mark my words! And if you think I didn't love my husband, God rest him, then you're wrong, but you're equally wrong if you now think that every time we quarrelled we threw a lamp at each other's head, let alone a chandelier! It's _you_ who have no idea how to behave when you're in love!"

In one fluid motion he was on his feet and glaring down at her, his eyes ablaze. "Don't – use – that – tone – on – me!" His voice sounded strained; it was obvious that he was having some difficulty with controlling his temper.

Maybe he needed to be told the truth, but Madame Giry knew when not to push her luck. "Alright", she said with a soothing gesture, "alright, I won't."

He exhaled, seemingly trying to calm himself, and his fists unclenched. This had been close, Madame Giry realized, very close indeed. As well as who he was, she should not forget that he had very little patience. Changing the topic had been a mistake; he was much easier to handle when miserable and hoping for pity than when in a towering rage and looking for something he could rip to shreds. She was glad that Christine was out of his reach now, and especially the young Vicomte, for who could say what he would do next if his mood was as foul as it was now?

"She is still mine", he muttered. "Mine."

"Alright", Madame Giry repeated. She was not going to discuss matters of property with him now, even if she thought that considering a young woman property was a most outrageous thing. In his current mood, he would find it outrageous that she disagreed with him, and maybe he would not be able to keep himself in check, then. And simply shouting at him might catch him by surprise, but his surprise would not last long. No, shouting at him required either a very guilty feeling or a very meek mood on his side, and both were extremely rare. Better to weather the storm and wait until he calmed himself. There was nothing else she could do.

He slumped down onto the bed beside her once more. "And don't argue with me", he said wearily. "I don't feel like arguing now."

"I won't", she replied, hoping that this meant that it would soon be over again.

For some time he just sat beside her in silence, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, then he spoke again, very quietly. "What exactly did I do wrong? With her, I mean."

Another dangerous topic. "I think she was afraid of you", Madame Giry answered carefully.

He nodded. "Just as I feared. And there won't be a next time. Not for me."

Astounded, she cast him a sideward glance. How he could jump from one mood to another with barely a pause was remarkable.

"You know", he continued, almost dreamily now, "I might have been happy with her. Maybe I would even have come out of the cellars for her, out of those dungeons, if she just wanted me to. I would have done anything she asked of me. Anything." He sighed heavily. "Well, done is done, and I had better get over it. And besides, if she had stayed… that sneaking bastard was down that night already."

At once a realization hit her that had not occurred to her before. "But when he was down in the cellars… do you think he might have harmed her on her way out?"

"No, she's safe."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can feel her." He was smiling fondly to himself as he said so. "I know she is alright. Right now she is…" His smile broadened. "Oh. She is waking up."

Madame Giry gave him a questioning look, but when he failed to notice it, she asked, "What do you mean, you can feel her?"

"Exactly what I say", he replied enigmatically, obviously very caught up with something only he could hear. The smile lingered. Then he closed his eyes, and she could see that his lips moved slightly, as if he were speaking to himself – or…

"You're not… rummaging around in her mind, are you?" she asked suspiciously. Could he, over this distance? She knew that he somehow seemed to possess the ability to guess what was going on in her mind if he looked someone in the eyes – or read someone's mind, maybe, although she did not like that idea. Not that it was always accurate, but he had gotten the point with her every time he did it, so that she now was careful to avoid his eyes if she wanted to keep something to herself. There were other things she knew for certain, like the trick with his voice in her head, or that his gaze could possess a certain hypnotic power if he wanted it to, the latter something he had been aware of as early as when they first met already, although back in those days it had been rather crude and unsuccessful equally often as not, while now it seemed to be a very highly refined skill, very subtle and differentiated. But he needed eye contact, he always needed eye contact to make his mind tricks work.

Or close proximity, in case of his dream trick. She knew that he had done that with Christine a few times, though she was not sure how often exactly, and she knew that he could manipulate dreams to a certain extent. Several years ago, he had even bothered to explain, and she recalled that he had said that because in sleep the mind's defences were abandoned, the dreamer positively radiated what he was dreaming about, and that he could get a general idea if he was close enough, and give the dream a few prods in the direction he wanted it to go, if he concentrated hard enough, but that complete manipulation was impossible due to the lack of eye contact.

So what was he doing now? Madame Giry suddenly had the suspicion that his powers had increased greatly since he had last explained about them, and this was not a very comfortable feeling.

"No. I'm just saying good morning." His smile had not yet disappeared. "She's so sweet."

Suddenly a memory struck her, of something Christine had once said: that she believed that her Angel was always with her, and that sometimes she could even feel him watching her. At that time, she had assumed that it was just the girl's imagination running wild, but she wasn't so sure anymore now.

"Not a good idea", he murmured suddenly, making her frown at him. His lips moved a bit more, silently, then ceased, then moved again, just as if she were witnessing a whispered conversation, but saw only one of the whisperers. Could it be that he was… _talking_ to her?

After some time he straightened, his expression as if waking from a dream, but a hint of the smile still lingered around the corners of his mouth. "You may well have a visitor today", he announced.


	15. II Trying too hard to put you from my Mi...

**II. Trying too hard to put you from my Mind**

Although Raoul had protested, he had at last agreed to accompany Christine, after a vain and rather pathetic effort to keep her locked in his bedroom. Maybe it had been a bit too cruel to threaten to break off their engagement, and the wounded look in his eyes still made her feel guilty about it – after all, the comparison with the Phantom, that he had locked her in, too, once (although she had not noticed it at that time), would have certainly been enough on its own, yet to come here was important to her. She could not have told Raoul why, of course, or else he might have had a fit with worries, but the reason she had given him – to inspect the damage and see what Meg's and her mother's perspectives for the future were, in this situation – had been good enough for him. That Meg might soon be tried hard to earn a living was something bothering him as well, and he had been muttering about the Phantom all morning.

On their way here, sitting in the coach together, he had occasionally inquired about the Phantom, if she could feel his proximity. To soothe his worries, Christine had finally told him that he was out, which had made him very glad – yes, out _of the cellars_; she had been close enough to their destination to feel him, and the idea she was getting was that he was somewhere upstairs, but no need to mention _that_. Raoul was worrying too much, anyway. And it wasn't even a lie, so she was not being dishonest. Moreover, the Phantom's leaving his cellars probably equalled pretty much what to other people was going out. Well, maybe not exactly. But it was close enough.

While climbing up to the lodgings, Raoul seemed cheerful enough, but Christine started to feel uneasy. The sensation inside her head, the awareness, seemed to grow with every step. He was there, somewhere around here, very close. And if she could feel him, she was sure that he could feel her just as well. Maybe he was even watching her right now, her and Raoul, waiting for an opportunity to hurt her beloved… She should not have brought Raoul! What if something happened to him? But she had promised to take him along wherever she went, and she doubted that she could have stopped him.

They encountered Meg on the stairs already, among a cluster of other girls, and immediately they were subjected to myriads of questions about what had really happened down in the cellars on that terrible night. Although both she and Raoul made some effort to fend them off, they were entirely unsuccessful, and at last Raoul offered to tell them at least what he was ready to tell, while Christine could go ahead and see Madame Giry. At first she had a bad feeling about Raoul's suggestion, but then again, she would not be far, and he was surrounded by half the female ballet and chorus members. And moreover, it seemed to her that the Phantom was somewhere ahead currently, so she would surely feel when he came at Raoul because he would have to cover some distance. At least she hoped she would.

And there was something else still: Before she and Raoul had left the Phantom, he had asked her not to tell anyone about it. His pleading eyes were quite clear in her memory. To fulfil this last wish for him was the least she could do.

Immediately after she had knocked on the door, she realized why she had had the feeling that the Phantom was straight ahead. He still was. He was right behind this door.

Too late to turn back now. Already the door swung open, and Madame Giry greeted her warmly, beckoning her inside. Drawing a deep breath, Christine stepped over the threshold. _No_, she told herself, _he has not reconsidered. He can't have. He was there only this morning, and he was very gentle. He couldn't possibly… He wouldn't… He is not really evil at heart, just misunderstood and desperate and lonely… He wouldn't harm me! He never would!_ But however certain she had been of this only yesterday, now she very suddenly was not, not anymore.

She was not at all surprised when she saw him standing in a corner, leaning against the wall with one shoulder, seemingly trying to appear nonchalant, but his gaze was as intense as ever. At once his full presence washed over her, filling her with fire and ice, and she trembled both with anticipation and dread. How foolish she had been, to think he would not affect her anymore! He would, he always would; that angelic voice belonging to a demon would never be gone from her head.

What was Raoul going to say to this?

"Do not fear him", Madame Giry said gently from behind her. "He will not harm you."

"You knew", Christine said flatly, turning towards her. "You knew it all along. You knew who my Angel was, and you never told me."

Madame Giry sighed. "Yes, child, I did. I do not deny it."

Willing herself to face the Phantom, Christine realized with horror that he was coming towards her. She wanted to back away, but those eyes, those searing, blazing, burning eyes, froze her to the spot she was standing on. He kept coming, slowly, without any hurry, until he stood a bare arm's length from her. Then he stopped, his eyes still on her. Christine felt dizzy, dazzled by his proximity. Her heart was racing; her thoughts were swirling and spiralling in her head. Even breathing steadily had become difficult. Nonetheless she tried, fighting hard against the dizziness making her want to collapse against his chest and think no more thought. "What are you doing to me?" Her voice sounded pressed somehow, but at least more or less even.

Instead of an answer, he looked at Madame Giry over her shoulder.

"So it's not a conscious thing", the ballet instructor spoke up again from behind her.

"No. I can feel her without reaching out to her. Without even just feeling around. I could point to her blindfolded without doing anything first." What was it in his voice? Uncertainty? Wonder? What was he talking about?

"And you're sure that under different circumstances you would have to do something?"

"Absolutely."

"Don't forget to take into account how well you know her", Madame Giry reminded him.

"I know _you_ well, too. And it's different with you. I don't truly feel you until I reach out towards you." Here he hesitated. "Well, actually I do feel something now, without reaching out. But that's because you're very close. If you were a few rooms away, I wouldn't feel a thing without wanting to, and it would be a bit difficult, at that distance and without seeing you. And all the same, even if you are close, I don't feel you properly unless I do something."

"Do you think this might have something to do with… your feelings towards her?"

"Yes, and no. I do think about her all the time, but still… I've loved her longer than this."

With growing irritation, Christine had listened to their conversation over her head. But now, it was definitely enough. Why couldn't they explain what they were talking about? And why did he have to say he loved her? Wasn't it enough that she knew? Why did he have to make her feel guilty, even if there was nothing to feel guilty about? They were going to tell her now – no, _he_ was going to, if he truly loved her! Poking her forefinger straight into his chest, she demanded, "What is this you're talking about? Aren't you going to explain, instead of just discussing matters over my head, like I wasn't there?"

Startled, he looked down at her once more. "I'm sorry", he said softly, and the slight change in his aura filing her head told her he truly was. Strange, his feelings had never been so clear to her before… until that night before last. It had started then.

"You're there in my mind", he said simply. "All the time. Without me looking for you."

She drew a deep breath before answering. "So are you. Much clearer than ever." Telling him so almost felt like committing herself to him, and part of her immediately wished she had kept silent, while the other asked how exactly she could possibly commit herself. No, it was just a weird feeling, nothing more.

"For how long?" His voice suddenly was breathy, as if excited, and eager to know.

"That night", she said, not looking at him. Would he now think that she loved him, too? Would he take this as something she had certainly never said, and never intended to say? Of course she felt something for him, and she was not even sure what, but not what she felt for Raoul. Yet would he read some different meaning into her words?

He nodded, as if he had known her answer beforehand. "And since when, exactly?"

"I… I don't know." As a matter of fact, she had a strong suspicion, well, actually a little bit more than a suspicion, although she had not quite noticed it straight away then, but it was better not to tell him _that_.

"Ever since we kissed, isn't it?" he asked quietly.

She could only nod to this.

"So what do you reckon?" Madame Giry asked, and Christine felt a bit of embarrassment at her being there when the Phantom spoke of such things. She hadn't kissed him because she loved him, rather because she loved Raoul, but all the same, it was a private matter between them, and the idea of anyone apart from Raoul knowing was not exactly a pleasant one.

"I don't know", the Phantom said. In this swirl of emotions, it was hard to keep their feelings apart in her head, but there was something very tender when he looked at her, and while somehow uncertain, very grateful. Yes, it had been this kiss changing his mind, hadn't it? She could have read it from what she sensed of his feelings, if she had not known.

For a moment there was silence, then Madame Giry began, "When you reach out to her, and when you find her… what do you normally do? And Christine, what do you do?"

Christine gave him a startled look while looking for an answer, and he answered it with an equally startled one before he replied, with what could be called an apologetic smile in Christine's direction, "I enter her mind."

"I don't think I do anything", Christine said. "I might try to fight him off, though", she added, so that it didn't seem as if she allowed him to be in and out of her mind however much he liked to.

"So if you don't fight him, you just admit him", Madame Giry stated.

"Well…" Christine did not quite like the sound of this, although she felt that it was pretty much correct.

"If you don't do anything, you allow him to", Madame Giry insisted. "He tries to enter your mind, you let him in, he takes over. That means he takes control." She paused thoughtfully. "I wonder. Until now, am I correct?"

The Phantom nodded, his expression not changing, but to Christine, he felt expectant. Definitely expectant.

"May I ask the two of you an intimate question?" But Madame Giry did not wait for their answer to that. "When you kissed, who started it?"

Again they looked at each other for a moment. At first it seemed that the Phantom was going to say something, but then he stopped himself and looked at Christine uncertainly. He knew the answer, and he found that it was not his place to utter it. Somehow, Christine was grateful for it. He left the decision to her, and she did not doubt that he would confirm it if she lied. But she did not want to, not to Madame Giry, who had been like a mother to her. "Me", she said, turning to look at her as she spoke. "It was me who…started it."

"And you –?" Madame Giry gave the Phantom a questioning look.

He shrugged. "Well, I kissed her back."

"But did you do anything apart from that?"

"I don't know. I was quite busy kissing her."

Despite all the dark memories from that night, Christine had to stifle a giggle, and the Phantom gave her a tiny grin. Was she just imagining things, or had there been a mischievous sparkle in his eyes for a moment?

"Were you inside her mind while you kissed?"

"No. I wanted her to… choose consciously." He spoke very quietly, and a feeling of guilt came over Christine that was not hers.

Madame Giry looked thoughtful. "Could it be that it all just happened as it usually does, only the other way round?"

The Phantom frowned. "What do you mean?"

But Christine understood. "That I entered his mind? How? I have no idea how he does it."

If that was possible, the Phantom's frown intensified very slightly. "I wouldn't know how you could so suddenly do it, either, but… I certainly yielded."

Christine could only stare at him. What he was suggesting there, what Madame Giry was suggesting, was absolutely outrageous. How could she ever enter someone's mind? "But I don't know how it's done", she protested. "I can't read minds, let alone control them."

"But you can feel him, can't you? And you could feel him before, when he was close."

Christine nodded uncertainly. "Yes, I could. But I think I mainly felt it when he was… touching me. With his mind, I mean. And when he was… very close…" She broke off, realizing what she had just said. When they had kissed, how could he have been any closer? It fitted, it all fitted. But how could she have managed to enter his mind?

And then she remembered. "I allowed myself to feel him", she said quietly. "But… he wasn't there as clearly as sometimes, and…"

"You tried to draw me in", he supplied.

"Yes", she admitted, "I might have."

"And I wasn't doing anything, which made you the dominant part." His eyes wandered over to Madame Giry. "That was brilliant."

The ballet instructor smiled warmly. "No. You're the brilliant one among the two of us."

"But I didn't see that."

"Because you thought you were the only one. Because you were convinced you were."

"But I'm not a mind-reader!" Christine protested.

"Maybe you are", Madame Giry said.

"I'll know that in a moment." His attention returned to her again, and once more his eyes were on her. "When you close your eyes, can you feel that there is someone around you? Like a speck of light in the darkness? Like a secluded patch of warmth in a lifeless place? Do you know if there's someone inside before you enter a room? Do you sometimes have feelings that are not your own?"

"No", Christine answered truthfully. "I never felt anything like that." Here she hesitated, but then she plunged on. "But I can feel you. When you're close enough, I could point a finger at you blindfolded, like you said before. And I could find you by just following the feeling."

Madame Giry sighed. "I'm afraid that explains nothing at all."

"No", the Phantom said, "it explains everything. You're not a mind-reader, Christine, you were right about that. You can't just feel out and enter anybody's mind. It only works with me."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I. Not completely, at least. But I think I might yet work it out."

"But how could I enter your mind if I can't? It was always you who did that with me, and you were in control all the time."

He smiled. "Almost correct. Your only mistake is that I could not be consciously in control all the time."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I was in your dreams, wasn't I?"

"Yes, and you sometimes changed them. You had to be in control to change them."

"Except when I fell asleep myself without breaking the connection first."

Now Christine was getting a vague idea of where this was going. "So that sometimes happened."

He was still smiling. "All the time. This way I could make sure you were not having nightmares, because if you had, I was bound to feel it, and I would wake up and change them. And besides, after some time I could hardly sleep without it. I suppose it was silly, really, but I kept worrying that something might happen to you while I was asleep, and that I might wake up and find you gone. Stupid, I know, but it helped."

Astounded, Christine noted that this was the first time she ever saw him look slightly embarrassed. But what incurred her astonishment even more was what she had just heard. "That's –"

"Yes, I know", he broke in roughly, his features suddenly stony once more. "One more taking you over and manipulating you, puppeteering around with you. One more reason to hate me."

Christine took a careful step back. She did not like that fierce light burning in his eyes. How could he change so suddenly, from gentle and warm to cold and violent? She had seen this change take place before, true enough, but every time she witnessed it, it scared her anew. "No", she murmured, "no… I mean…" But she could not bring herself to tell him, not when he was looking at her like that, not when her awareness was filled with anger cold as ice, vast like a glacier she could lose herself in. She should never have come here. She should never have listened to his voice this morning, whatever outrageous tale he had told her to lure her here! God, why couldn't she just turn her back on him and forget him, make him walk out of her life and set her free? No, he would always be there, inside her head, beckoning to her, calling her, so very tenderly that she almost forgot he was no angel, only to cruelly remind her, as soon as she confronted him, that the Angel she had once loved was dead.

His hand shot up to cup her chin, gripping it strongly, but careful not to hurt her. He always found this point of balance perfectly. "What is it you mean?" The fires in his eyes seemed to have burned down, but still they were glowing, and who could tell what would kindle them anew?

Christine swallowed. Lying was of no use. Trying hard to work some moisture back into her mouth – she had hardly noticed how rapidly it had dried away – she replied, "What I meant to say… it's… actually, it was sweet of you."

Once more, his reaction was utterly unexpected. His hand dropped away, and Christine had the strong impression that his jaw was at the point of dropping as well. Several expressions flickered across his features, gone too quickly to be truly read, and an echo of feelings tumbled through her consciousness, so contrary that she wondered how one single mind could contain them all. Pride, annoyance, happiness, a touch of shame, a hint of smugness as well as one of disdain, and many more dancing specks of sensation she could hardly put a name to. What was going on in his head, she wondered, what was truly going on in there? But when he spoke again, his voice was completely calm, as was his face, not betraying the torrent of emotions inside. "Right, what I was going to tell you was that when I fell asleep I partly let go of the control, though still keeping my hold on you, and… well… maybe part of me seeped over into you."

Christine shivered inwardly at the mere idea. However much she appreciated his presence at night, in those moments before she fell asleep, to picture this made her feel soiled, tainted by his touch.

"Whatever happened", he continued, "it gave you the ability to at least accidentally come close to entering my mind, and I wasn't aware and let you" – his face showed his reluctance to admit so – "and now there is a connection neither of us can explain, nor break on his own. I still have to reach out when I want to take control, but not anymore if I only want to feel you. You're always there inside my head, taunting me, and I can't shut you out." His voice grew sharper as he spoke, his tone rougher. "You sealed my fate with that kiss. What more do you want? Isn't it enough for you to know you've found a very subtle way to have your revenge? Are you expecting me to beg you to release me next? On my knees, by any chance? What more do you have in store for me?" His eyes were flashing, the corners of his mouth twitching as he drew a sharp breath. "Why, Christine?" he hissed. "Why? Why do you play games with me? Why do you have to –?"

At first Christine did not know why he broke off so suddenly, but then she realized that Madame Giry had stepped up to him and placed a hand on his upper arm. "Don't", she said gently, but the underlying tone was firm enough. "The girl doesn't mean to play with you. Don't be so hard on her."

She was asking him _not to be hard on her_? Christine could not quite believe her ears. Madame Giry was acting as if she had truly done the Phantom wrong purposefully, instead of telling him that this all was – Here her train of thought came to a halt abruptly. Of course. You didn't tell the Phantom that he was being absolutely illogical in his accusations, and that, moreover, _he_ was the one who had enjoyed playing games with _her_. No, rather not. Not with all that anger constantly flaring up inside her mind, a reflection of his own emotions, cold yet seething at the same time… and this feeling of pain.

"Come now", Madame Giry continued firmly, "why don't we sit down and have some tea? We shouldn't let it get cold. And there are still a few cucumber sandwiches left."

Christine smiled at her warmly. She had always liked cucumber sandwiches; how kind of Madame Giry to remember – though having tea with the Phantom was not exactly Christine's concept of being comfortable.

The Phantom, however, seemed not to be so easily swayed by cucumber sandwiches. "Would you kindly leave us alone for a moment?" he said evenly.

Madame Giry clearly wanted to protest at first, but then their gazes locked, and Christine could positively see all defiance draining out of the older woman. When the Phantom turned from her again, she only sighed heavily and made for the door, though not without a last apologetic glance at Christine, who gave her an affirmative nod. She would manage to deal with him on her own – somehow. After all, she had managed to do so before. Still, it provided some comfort when Madame Giry said, before closing the door behind her, "I won't be far."

The clicking of the lock seemed to Christine like the ominous toll of a bell, announcing the moment when her fate would be sealed. Drawing a deep breath, she tried to keep her hands from trembling while at the same time fixing her gaze as evenly as possible on the man opposite her.

For the first time she noticed that while his clothing was not exactly untidy, it was still somewhat in disarray, especially in comparison to his usual neat appearance. His jacket was very close to hanging off one shoulder; his shirt seemed slightly crumpled up. And there was a strand of hair which would be tucked behind his ear under normal circumstances, not just hanging over his temple. His looks corresponded perfectly with his flickering aura, flickering with all those emotions reeling madly inside her head. This was not how she had known him. Until that moment in the cellars, when he had very suddenly been reduced to flesh and blood, he had been a demon stepping out of a wild fantasy of Hell, terrible in his calm elegance and crowned with the night's dark glory. He was still a demon now, but had lost much of his bearing, thrashing out blindly in a rage he was unable to contain, still sinisterly imposing, but strongly diminished, far from what he had once been.

As soon as Madame Giry had left the room, he began circling Christine, like a predator watching his prey. But this time, she would not play his games for him. This time, she would not let him guide matters his way. "Why did you bring me here?" she asked before he had the chance to say anything.

"It was not me who brought you. You chose to come."

Christine bit her lip. In fact, he had as good as implored her not to come. He had seemed very concerned about something, although he had not made himself clear, and she had still been too drowsy to truly find out what it was he wanted. "But you lured me here", she said, feeling stupid about admitting to have walked into a set-up trap. "You wanted me to come, didn't you? What is it you want?"

"I wanted certainty", he answered, never faltering in his circling her. "I wanted to know what kind of bond now connects us, what made the old bond change into this. And at the same time, I didn't want you to come."

"But what you told me this morning doesn't make sense to me. Mysterious strangers lurking around your lair? What were you talking about, and what does this have to do with me?" Until now, she did very well in her own opinion. Keep him to the facts, don't give him the chance to play games, be careful not to let him intimidate you just because you are alone with him.

"Everything. If they – and I hardly yet know who they are – want anything of me, they could use you. And it is clear that they want something, whoever they are. I just want you to be safe. Maybe it would be better if you didn't come here at all until I have dealt with them."

"Why do you worry about me? Why should anyone try to get at me to get at you?" As soon as these words were uttered, she knew she had made a mistake. After all, she knew the answer to this only too well, and this answer would surely enough give him the opening he had been waiting for.

"Do you want to hear me say it again, then?" Another torrent of feelings rushed through her, making her dizzy. "Because I love you." At once he grabbed her from behind, crushing her against him as he had often done before. "I love you, and I'm not reluctant to admit it. Why should I be, when everybody knows?" His breath against the side of her neck sent a soft tingling through her. "And if everybody knows, _they_ know. You in their hands would give them power over me. But I will never allow them to have you. Never, do you hear?" His grip around her middle tightened. "You will be safe from them, whatever it is they want. I will make sure you are. But still, I'm glad you have come." His embrace again tightened, and Christine knew that it was useless to fight him. She just hoped that he would release her soon, before he crushed her ribs. "And then again, I'm not. Your touch is pure joy as well as utter torment. I want you more than anything in the world, and you're so tantalizingly close to being mine, but still you slip from me, and I can't have you. You give me everything, only to destroy everything at the same instant. You torture me beyond enduring, but still I can't help loving you." He kissed the side of her neck, forcing her to clutch his forearms not to get the feeling that her knees would give way any moment and she would fall at his feet in a crumpled heap. "Whatever you chose that night, part of you is still mine, and I mean to claim it. I mean to have all I can get." Again his lips touched her neck. "Do you have any idea what that means, wanting someone so badly?" he asked between kisses, his voice suddenly husky, close to breathlessness. "The thrill of it? The joy? The pain?" Despite her grip on his arms, one of his hands slowly started wandering upwards. "I could teach you the meaning of true passion, if you only just let me. I could make you experience pure ecstasy. Just give in to your desire, as I will at last give in to mine. Be mine, as I will be yours." This time he did not kiss her, but bit her, at first nibbling the side of her neck gently, then biting harder, making her cry out with surprise as well as pain, sucking her skin greedily while still grazing it with his teeth –

The door sprang open, and Madame Giry strode in, making them break apart instantly. "Now this is enough", she said sternly. "What were you doing, making her shriek like that?"

"Nothing", the Phantom said sharply, shooting her a baleful glare the ballet instructor chose rather not to meet.

Massaging the side of her neck, careful to rub off the moisture which made her skin feel cold as it was suddenly exposed to air once more, Christine felt embarrassment flood her. Once again she had not managed to fight him off. Once again she had hardly even made an attempt to. And this with Raoul only a short distance away! She felt ashamed of herself.

"Very well", Madame Giry said, nodding at Christine reassuringly. "Let us sit and discuss this all over some tea now, shall we? I think you ought to know, child, what this is all about."

The Phantom continued glaring, but did not protest. When Madame Giry motioned him to sit down, he did so, seeming strangely subdued, not meeting Christine's eyes. And she felt that despite the powers he still possessed, he was a broken man, a mere shadow of himself, with nothing left of his pride and glory but ashes on the wind.


	16. BOOK FOUR: The Threads of Darkness

**Book Four: The Threads of Darkness**

**I. Angel of Music  
II. Insolent Boy  
III. Darkness deep as Hell  
IV. Glance behind  
V. To the Dungeons  
VI. You shall know me  
VII. Don't let them find you**

Author's Note: _Here we are at last. Now we have reached the point from where on you will know why I picked that rating._

_As usual, I thank my faithful readers and reviewers. Continue like that, ladies, and leave lots of reviews for me, and I'll have the Phantom take off his shirt for you in the next Book. Bet you'll like that, eh?_

_Someone asked me about what the pairing is going to be in this story. Do you really want me to say so right now? Hmm… Well, there is not much choice of couples, is there? You have two guys and two girls, and since one combination is already… No, I'm saying nothing more, just poking my tongue out, leaving you in suspense… but I expect it's easy enough to guess, especially after this Book. And in the Sixth it's going to be obvious, so the wait won't be that long._

_As for another review…__ I neither mind bad spelling (found no mistakes, though… perhaps I'm a bit dense after three hours of orchestra practise…) nor people talking my ear off, you can talk both my ears off and I'm going to enjoy every minute of it. ;-)_

_I'll be away skiing from Saturday to Tuesday, but after that I'll continue my update rampage. Promise._


	17. I Angel of Music

**I. Angel of Music**

"There is something about him I don't understand", Christine said, taking a seat on Meg's bed. "The moment I look into his eyes… everything changes. It's like a trance. I can't think straight around him. Even if he doesn't look at me. He radiates… heat, you could say, yes, but cold at the same time. It makes me afraid."

Meg smiled. "Yes, he _is_ rather good-looking, isn't he?"

"Meg! Really!"

"Oh, yes, sorry, I forgot you don't go that much for the dark type", Meg continued, still smiling mischievously. "You like the slender, fair-haired ones, don't you?"

Christine sighed. "No, Meg, I'm serious. And if you have encountered him recently, as it seems you have, you'll surely have realized you have to be careful. He's not just another ensemble member you can goggle at when he's not looking. And he will know when you're goggling at him, trust him to that."

Not to be cheered up, then. Meg very nearly sighed herself. And to think that Christine usually enjoyed whispering about ensemble members and giggling together as much as she did… Oh well, the Phantom was indeed not an ensemble member, even though he belonged to the Opera more firmly than many a singer or dancer. To Meg, this didn't matter, because she felt he could still secretly be goggled at, although he had indeed noticed, but maybe for Christine her past experiences with the Phantom were in the way of any such thing. How was she to know, if Christine didn't speak about it? Very well, no discussing the Phantom's looks, then. And maybe Christine would prefer to avoid the topic altogether. Meg hoped she would not; after all, Christine was probably the one who knew most about the Phantom. Except her own mother, as it seemed, but Meg was somewhat reluctant to inquire too much from her mother. Her mother would find out about goggling at him. Her mother always found out. "I bet he does", she replied to Christine's last remark. "He surely enough did when I did."

Christine raised her eyebrows at her friend slightly. "Meg… is there something I ought to know, and your mother definitely ought not?"

Meg giggled, and was glad to see that the corners of Christine's mouth pulled up into a little smile. "I saw him in a soaking wet shirt, you know. I suppose you get the picture."

Obviously her friend did, for her eyebrows went up a little further, and her smile widened. "Oh. Fancy that." Now she giggled just as well, and to Meg, everything was back to normal again. "Such lovely ideas you give me. I might have to pushed Raoul into the bathtub fully clothed tonight just out of curiosity."

Meg positively snorted with laughter. "Poor Raoul! I can imagine the look on his face."

"Yes, poor dear", Christine agreed. "He'll surely think he has done something wrong. But he'll certainly go and lie in the tub with his clothes on if I ask him nicely enough. Anyway", here her expression turned serious once more, "what have you been up to?"

Immediately Meg launched into a full account of her adventures under ground during the last days, and Christine listened expectantly. When Meg ended her tale, she shook her head in wonder. "And he really wasn't angry about the mask? Believe me, he's extremely touchy about it normally."

Meg shrugged. "Not at all. He was surprisingly friendly. And this morning, when he woke me to get all the details about those scary eyes in the darkness, he was a bit fierce, but still not unpleasant. Of course, he had my mother with him, but all the same, he hasn't been acting like some dangerous and violent madman with me."

"Let us hope he never will." Christine touched Meg's arm lightly. "For years, he has been very tender with me, and I truly believed him to be an angel, although his presence frightened me sometimes. But then… His moods can change very suddenly, and when his eyes light up like that, you never know what he'll do next. You wouldn't put it past him to kill you, then."

Meg nodded, remembering the Phantom's expression at the mention of Christine about to be married. Had her mother ever seen him like that? Maybe she should really ask her about him. And the way he had looked at her this morning while she told him of the eerie pair of green eyes in the darkness behind her… It had been rather difficult to interpret. Had it been concern for her? Perhaps that also, but there had been more to it. Rage, of course. No, much more. Wrath. Fury. And something else still, something she could not put a name to, but somehow she was sure it made the connection between his concern and the latter feelings. What was it he had said? "He told me he would not allow anyone meaning any harm to come near me."

"Indeed." Christine's expression was very serious. "That's how it begins. At first he is just protective about you, but then he starts being possessive. Be careful with such promises, for in the end they might mean no good."

Possessive. Yes. Possessive was just the word. He had looked at her like at a treasured possession he would guard jealously against any intruder. Meg nodded slowly, at once not quite certain anymore what she should make of his promise, which had earlier this morning given her comfort. "I'll keep that in mind", she said.

Would he try the same thing with her he had tried with Christine? Would he at first gently make her grow accustomed to him, then entrance her and manipulate her and at last make her his own? Somehow this was hard to believe, when she thought of how he had acted this morning, and of the way he had winked at her when he had slipped a certain scarlet item of clothing under his jacket, so her mother would not see what exactly she had been allowed to borrow from him. But Christine would know, of course. At first the Angel of Music, then a creature from Hell. She really had to be careful around him.

But as she remembered those eyes, shining from the shadows like glowing embers, she found herself wishing very much that the Phantom would be her Angel, too, even if just for a little while.


	18. II Insolent Boy

**II. Insolent Boy**

Hurrying up the stairs to where Christine's quarters had once been, only a short time ago, Raoul was careful to avoid all the awkward questions people had in store for him. He had just been to inspect the damage done to the stage and auditorium, and those moments of fear and anguish were once again fresh and raw in his mind; he did not want to relive them again and again. Probably his not revealing much would give all the rumours free reign, but for now he did not care. People would gossip anyway.

Moreover, he wanted to be with Christine again, whatever she had said about the Phantom being somewhere else. What if he had come back in the meantime and tried to drag her off to his dungeons once more? That monster! He would never do that again!

Raoul took a few steps in a leap – and skidded to a sharp halt on the landing. From up ahead, where Madame Giry's quarters were located, a pair of cold eyes glittered, and a white mask seemed to gently glow in the gloom. The Phantom stood with his arms crossed, dressed all in black and with his cloak wrapped around his shoulders, leaning against the wall, apparently perfectly at ease, but his eyes watched Raoul's every move warily.

Raoul took a deep breath to steady himself. "You", he stated.

The Phantom's lips curled into a sneer. "Seems so."

_Stay calm. Calm. Relax._ "I'm here to protect Christine", Raoul announced, feeling rather brave.

"Fancy that."

"And if you don't stop grinning at me like that", Raoul continued hotly, "I'll come and wipe that stupid grin right off your face."

"I'd like to see you try, kid."

There was no backing out of it now. Regretting bitterly that he had left his sabre back at the coach, Raoul slowly started up the last steps. _Calm down. You can handle him. Calm down._ The Phantom was still watching him, but made no move, and Raoul feared that he did not look exactly intimidating currently. To be honest, he never looked intimidating. When he was at the same height with his opponent, he puffed out his chest and tried to stand as tall as possible. Why did that accursed fellow have to be slightly taller than he was? And how did he manage to radiate danger while in such a comfortable pose? It was hardly fair.

"When you're done staring at me", the Phantom said, his sneer growing wider with every passing moment, "would you kindly inform me what exactly you intend to do about me? It might be interesting… and most certainly amusing, I trust."

"You watch your tongue!" Raoul snapped at him, feverishly thinking about what he was really going to do. Just punch him in the nose? He certainly felt like it, but this was not a very gentleman-like behaviour, and Raoul did not want to be caught misbehaving by his fiancée.

The Phantom raised his eyebrows, or at least the one that was visible. "Or you'll do what, if I may ask?"

Raoul sighed. Currently there was nothing suitable coming to his mind. "I'll think of something", he answered honestly, trying to speak in a tone as dignified as possible.

"Right. You do that." There was a moment's silence, in which they both eyed each other suspiciously, then the Phantom remarked, "You know, I might just have a mental advantage on you."

Raoul decided that this was no time to be a gentleman after all. "Shut up, you murderer."

"Is this what you consider an insult, slimeball?"

"Insulting people is not a very clever argument", Raoul threw at him.

"Telling them to shut up is even less so. Besides, I was merely stating a fact."

"I'd like to hit you", Raoul burst out.

"Really?" The Phantom smirked. "One question: How would a snivelling little boy like you ever manage to land a proper blow?"

"But I beat you", Raoul cried triumphantly. "I beat you in our duel at the cemetery, remember?" There would be absolutely nothing the Phantom could possibly say to _this_.

"Oh yes. I must have slipped on your slime trail, I assume. But I'm ready to repeat the duel any time."

"You're a bad loser", Raoul commented, thrusting his hands into his pockets and trying to appear at ease as well.

"You need a haircut."

Raoul's mouth worked silently. How dare he? The impertinence of this! There was _absolutely nothing_ wrong with his hairstyle, whatever his mother and father, and several other relations, to be exact, had to say about it! "There's a lot more wrong with _your_ looks", he replied furiously.

At last it seemed he had hit a sore spot, for the Phantom jerked upright at once, looming intimidatingly over him. In a low, very dangerous voice, he answered, "Be mindful of what you say, insolent little cockroach. Unlike you, I've currently got lots of lovely images in my head of what I might do to you."

Raoul did not doubt it, and he knew that several of these images probably involved a rope around his neck. However, what the Phantom did next came quite unexpected: Allowing his cloak to slide back from his left hip, he rested his left hand on the pommel of his sabre lightly, while the right came to caress the hilts of the two daggers he wore belted on beside it. "I might even let you pick", he said softly, his voice full of anticipation.

"A remarkable collection, I see." It was not easy for Raul to keep his voice steady. How foolish he had been, leaving his own weapon behind! And at once he found himself thinking longingly of the pistol his father kept somewhere in his desk, back at their city residence. One of these days, he should maybe go looking for it.

"I picked them off dead men's bodies, one by one. Needless to say, it was me who killed them in the first place."

Raoul's breath caught. Another threat. "Showing off, are you?", he managed, his throat rather tight.

The Phantom's black-gloved index finger lovingly traced the hilt of the one dagger closest to his belt buckle, or rather, to the three belt buckles above each other. It seemed that both daggers had come with their own belt, and he wore them strapped on very slightly lopsidedly so the buckles would not get into each other's way. The one belt belonging to this one was the crudest, of soft, worn leather, with a loose end dangling down for almost a foot's length. It must have been owned by a rather wide man before the Phantom had come to claim it. "This one is a treasured trophy", he said in a conversational tone. "I took it from the second man I ever killed, many years ago. He used to work here, the filthy brute, and he had the unfortunate idea to come too close to a woman I held dear, and to force his attentions on her." Here he made a meaningful pause, and his eyes bored into Raoul's. "To make it short, I strangled him and threw him into the river. But he died hard, that one. He took his time with it. My first was a cleaner job." He leered at Raoul, the visible side of his face an eerie grimace in the shadows. "At least you won't have to worry about that. I've got plenty of experience now."

Whether he was lying about this all or not, this man was a monster. "So you take pride in all your victims", Raoul breathed, the disgust plain in his voice, and he knew that it would show on his face as well. "I don't doubt this is the only qualification about you, you murdering bastard!" He realized that he was going to use what his mother considered really bad language now, but he did not care. "You can list them all if you like, you bloody son of a bitch, and threaten me as much as you want, but I'll go straight to the police and tell them you're still here, and then they'll come and get you, and off to the gallows you go! They'll make it short with you, I reckon, because something like you won't be seen fit to get a trial. And I'll be delighted to watch them place the noose around your own neck, at last." His voice had turned into a furious hiss towards the end, full of hatred for the man who had dared to treat his beloved Christine like that. In fact, the mere idea of an execution sickened him, but in this case, he wished he could be there to watch.

And then he felt sick of himself, sick for his own desire to see someone die, even if this someone was his worst rival and had treated Christine rather badly. Even if this someone deserved to die ten times over. Wishing to witness another's death made him no better than the Phantom was.

How could he ever again look Christine in the eyes, after he had harboured such thoughts inside him? How could he ever dare to approach her now without a feeling of guilt towards this pure, innocent being? When there were such thoughts on his mind, he was not worthy of her. Christine was too good for him.

The Phantom was still watching him, with eyes blazing and cold at the same time. Some of Raoul's feelings must have shown on his face, because the Phantom commented dryly, "Find a stronger stomach for yourself before you dream of such things."

Raoul wanted to retort angrily that he did not intend to, that he was proud to be a decent man and not a monster, but at precisely this instant the door opened, and Madame Giry appeared on the threshold. "So there you are", she said. "I thought I could hear your voices. Why don't you come in? The girls have been in and out of my room for the last half hour, and eating up most of the sandwiches and drinking most of the tea, but there's still enough left." She greeted Raoul warmly, then turned to the Phantom. "How about you? You look quite ready, it seems." She was regarding him, and only now Raoul noticed the rough black leather vest the Phantom had donned over a black linen shirt. What villainy was he up to again?

"I am." The cold wrath in his voice was barely concealed, and once more Raoul fervently wished for a weapon of any kind. Heavens, Christine was inside this room, and this murdering madman lurking only outside the door!

Madame Giry sighed heavily. "I won't be able to stop you, I'm afraid. Wouldn't you stay for just a moment?"

"Every passing moment gives them a firmer hold." God, all that hatred one single voice could contain!

"Go with Heaven's blessing, then, although this means nothing to you. Do what you think you must." Her voice was tinged with worry, yet Raoul had no idea what they were talking about.

"What else would you have me do, then?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Just promise me to be safe."

"I can't promise you that", he answered gently, and Raoul was surprised at how suddenly the tone of his voice could change.

"But you can at least be careful. If not for my sake, then at least for Christine's. Will you do that? For her?"

There was the shortest of pauses, then he said, "I will." With a last nod at her, he turned to go, then stopped once more on the topmost steps of the staircase. "Before I go", he said, very softly, "I just want you to know that she and you and your daughter are the only ones that matter to me. If I by any chance don't come back… keep that in mind."

Following after him, Madame Giry pulled him into a tight hug, regardless of Raoul watching, who felt that the surprises would never come to an end on this day. That Madame Giry knew the Phantom better than anyone else, he had known, because she herself had told him so. But that there was something close to affection between them… He had heard it in her voice back then, when she had spoken of the Phantom as a genius, but that this heartless murderer would return her feelings… He would never have expected it.

Had it been her the Phantom had referred to earlier, when he had spoken of that man he had killed? Had he killed that man for her sake? Raoul assumed so. He wondered what this must feel like, having someone close who readily killed to ensure one's happiness, and he hoped that he would never have to find out.

Gently loosening her grip on him, the Phantom gave her a little bow, one fist on his chest and with a flourish of his cloak, and then he swiftly descended and disappeared from view. Madame Giry watched him go with an expression of sorrow.

Clearing his throat, Raoul felt that a few soothing words were in place now. "He can take care of himself", he said. "Whatever he's up to. That one's a fighter if I ever saw one."

Madame Giry smiled up at him gratefully. "Yes, he is. Of course he is."

Raoul drew a deep breath. "If you'll pardon my curiosity, Madame… but what is going on here?" Yes, what did this criminal intend to do in Christine's name, sullying it with his black, impure mind?

The answer was quite simple. "Come with me, and you'll learn everything."


	19. III Darkness deep as Hell

**III. Darkness deep as Hell**

Two long lines of braziers, filled with glowing coals, had been put up along the underground hall's length, giving off a soft, flickering light not wholly able to dissipate the gloom. In the corners and towards the farther end, deep shadows still lingered. The side containing the entrance, however, was illumined by a lantern's eerie red glow, seemingly bathing the cherub worked into the stone wall to either side of the doorway in dark, glistening blood.

Many shapes crouched along the lines of braziers, most of them men, but also a few women, some of them busy with chores which could be done in the twilight, like tending the fires, pouring drinks from large, crude pottery jugs or, in some cases, whisking blades over whetstones. The area between the two lines was left bare, though – except for one tall, dark shape, looming up in the very middle of the hall, not moving, his presence a quiet threat.

Something stirred at the entrance, and then the ghastly red sheen swept over Adhemar's scarred features for a moment as he strode along the aisle between the lines of braziers, another man following in his wake. This man was less tall, and the visible left side of his face was lined with age. A black hood hung over the other, hiding it from sight.

Stopping sharp in front of the towering shadow in the middle of the hall, Adhemar bowed, his right fist pressed to his chest in salute. "Master." The other at his heels repeated the gesture, though he did not speak.

Slowly the one thus addressed turned, the folds of a flowing black robe rippling and billowing gently around him. The braziers' weak glow made the shadows dance across sharp features and a high brow, framed with long dark hair. One eye glittered in the twilight. From the middle of his forehead to the end of his right cheekbone ran a deep, broad scar, like cloven with a sword, crossing the right eye, which was covered by a dark piece of cloth, slung lopsided around his head.

Adhemar bowed once more before he spoke again. "Master, we have searched the lair once again. We must assume that he has dwelled down here for some time, though it is impossible to say for how long. There is no evidence that he has returned since last night."

The man in front of him nodded, acknowledging Adhemar's report. "You have done well", he said, his voice rich and deep, and very cold. "Your task is fulfilled. When he comes, he will answer all the remaining questions himself."

"Lionel still has not returned." The voice was soft, but sharp, and all three men turned to regard the speaker. From among the sitting figures, Aeternus had risen, flanked by a pair of fair-haired men, disapproval written clearly on his plain face.

"Lionel departed on my orders, and you would do well not to question them."

There was the briefest moment of hesitation, then Aeternus bowed his head. "Yes, Master."

"He is right, though." A tall, slender woman stepped between the men gracefully, in a clinging dress of black silk, glossy dark hair falling down her back in waves. Her features were of a rare beauty, yet her expression was hard and determined, as were her dark eyes. "Lionel is a fool. Do you really think he is up to the task set for him?"

If the tall man in the middle was angered by the absence of his title, he did not show it. "Lionel will serve my purpose well enough."

"A hidden purpose beside the obvious one, I'll wager", Aeternus muttered, stroking his short, square-cut beard with thumb and index of his gloved right hand.

"Do not try my patience, Aeternus." If possible, the cold in the Master's voice had increased. "You may have a sub-dominant mind, and a very subtle one, but your tongue runs far too loose."

Again there was a very brief moment of hesitation, then Aeternus murmured, "Forgive me, Master."

"Either way, we will have him."

There was a murmur of agreement from Adhemar and the hooded man at his shoulder, and Aeternus nodded slightly.

"I saw him", the woman said. "Aeternus and I. That night at the Opera. It seems he is a pretty one. Let me have him, Master, and break him for you."

But he waved her away with a simple gesture of his hand. "I am not yet making any promises." His gaze shifted to another figure standing in the shadows. "What is it you have found out, then? Have you yet determined his age?"

Thus addressed, the man stepped up closer into the light. He was tall, lean and completely white-haired, yet his brows were black, and his narrow, noble face bore the lines of many a decade he had seen come and pass. Still he moved with grace, though, as if those years had only very barely touched him. "Master", he answered, his voice equally full and deep, yet lacking the cold of the other's, "my men do not seem to agree on his exact age. Kalo's information is the most reliable, and he insists on dating him above forty-eight. If he truly belongs to your kind, Master, he will appear younger. It corresponds with Lord Aeternus's estimation, then." Although he used a title when he referred to the man with the one black glove, there was no reverence in his voice, and it seemed he was speaking of an equal. The pair of blond men at Aeternus's side both shifted their position and exchanged an angered glance, yet Aeternus calmed them down with a lazy wave of his gloved hand, his expression remaining unchanged.

"Very well. What of his powers?"

"Hypnotic powers, as it seems, Master. And only when he looks into someone's eyes."

"We do not know how his powers have developed over the years", the woman pointed out. "But I will have no difficulties in finding out once I have him."

"Are you not content with what you have, then?" Adhemar suddenly growled.

The woman smiled. "No, my sweet", she replied mockingly. "I never am."

The man they called their Master nodded curtly, and the white-haired one withdrew once more into the shadows. "I can feel him. He is coming to me."

"To us", the woman corrected, one eyebrow raised.

He turned to her, then, and at once she winced as if struck by an invisible hand. "Do not overestimate your position, Niobe." His voice was as sharp as a stab with an icicle. "You can have his body when I'm through with him, but his mind will still be mine."

This time, the woman lowered her proud gaze. "Yes, Master."


	20. IV Glance behind

**IV. Glance behind**

The soft lapping of the small waves against the stone steps was the only sound audible. Climbing down them lightly, until the water washed over the tips of his boots, the Phantom gave the boat towed nearby a short glance. Yes, everything was as he had left it. Good. He bent to retrieve a bundle from below the bench, then waded out a few paces into the shallow water, until he reached the place where there was a niche in the wall, just high enough to remain untouched by the water. It concealed no secret entrance or any of the like; in fact, it seemed to have no purpose at all, but it was useful enough for now. He stepped up onto the higher ground, leaning against the uneven stone wall so that he was hidden from view except for someone standing right opposite him, and closed his eyes. For a moment he concentrated just on his own calm, steady breathing, then, when he felt he was ready, carefully reached out into the darkness with his mind, slowly extending curious tendrils –

He withdrew almost immediately, wincing against the rough wall. There was… _something_… out there. Not a human mind, certainly, but something else, something that was alive in some sense, and then again not…

Suddenly he felt watched, as if a hundred pairs of eyes were boring into the back of his head, and automatically he turned around, only to stare at the stone wall. Frowning, he reached out once more, though even more carefully than before. He could not go mad yet. Not yet.

Yes, there it was. No, he corrected himself, there they were. They were everywhere, an intricately woven web of threads, of pulsating threads of darkness. The image appeared in his head unbidden, and words had always come to him easily, so he was naming them at first touch already, knowing he had found the right name. The threads of darkness. They were everywhere, infesting this place, this familiar darkness that was his own.

He snarled at the crisscrossing spiderweb wordlessly, feeling anger flood him with radiant life. Lionel was not the only one who had something to answer for… His fingers almost twitched in appreciation as his mind provided him with a wide variety of things he could do to the one responsible for this. Hatred flared in him, making his blood boil. He had restrained himself with that insolent young fool earlier on, had forced himself into an icy calm, biting back all his rage and pain and hiding behind a façade of quiet disdain, but now the wall he had erected around himself was crumbling, splintering inwards into millions of shards which stabbed at him and ripped all the fresh wounds open once more. He had to clench his teeth hard not to howl it all out into the darkness, this cruel darkness which was not even his own anymore. There was nothing left to him. Nothing.

How he wished for everything to be over, for death to come swiftly upon him and cast him down into his cold, lonely grave, where his solitude would last until eternity was over, until the world was fading away in the mists of time…

But first things first. Now it was time to deal with Lionel; the rest could wait. He would kill the intruders, kill them all, and then that impertinent boy, and those fools who now ran his Opera House, and Carlotta, and… Everyone. He would destroy everyone in his reach. And then, when the world around him lay in smoking ruins, he would savour it all and capture it in a Requiem of his own before he himself died. But not yet. Death lay beyond the horizon still. As long as he had not finished what he had come for, he would still have to endure the pain.

Reaching out once more, but this time ignoring the threads best as he could, he searched for any traces of life, any minds out there. Rats there were, like dim pinpricks in the darkness, hardly enough to enter his awareness at all, but apart from them, there was nothing else. He was quite alone.

Alone… Always alone…

Good. It made things easier. Shrugging off his cloak, he bundled it up and placed it between his feet, alongside the bundle he had retrieved from the boat. From the latter he took, after a moment's searching, the same black mask he had worn when he had appeared on stage in the production of _Don Juan_, forcing down the memories which inevitably came, and exchanged it for the white one. When he had, after completing his preparations, gone up once more to take his leave – and, as he admitted to himself, to draw courage from Christine's presence – he had worn cloak and white mask for show, because those two were the things he was famous for, apart from a sling of rope. For what he was planning to do now, they would only be in the way. The same held true for the sabre. Had Lionel been expecting him here, where he had left the boat, he would have used the weapon to run the intruder through straight away, but as Lionel did not seem to be anywhere close, he would have to creep up on him, as he had tried during the night, and a weapon as large as a sabre would only be in the way. So he undid the corresponding belt, too, hastily wrapping it about the weapon's sheath, then picked up the rest of his things and, after a last careful search for any signs of life nearby, he stepped back down into the flooded corridor.

The eyes were still there, right behind him, but when he turned, there was nothing except darkness and emptiness.

The water was only knee-high here, but very cold, as it always was, especially during the winter. There had been times when part of the flooded chambers and corridors had been covered by a layer of ice as well. During the warm season, wading through the cold water could be quite refreshing, but when winter came, he always used the boat if he could help it. This time, however, it was not possible. If anyone of the intruders came upon the boat still towed where he had left it, they would believe that he had not returned yet, which was exactly what he wanted them to believe. Moreover, it would be difficult to creep up on somebody with perfect night sight when using a boat.

He moved silently, but swiftly, every now and again stopping to feel around him for other minds, and again and again turning to glance behind, although he knew that there was nobody there. Soon the water grew deeper, almost reaching his waist. It chilled him, but he forced the sensation out of his awareness, focusing on what lay ahead. Hatred roared inside him, shooting up sparks like an angry furnace, so much stronger than the cold. It gave him strength, made him go on even if all he truly wanted was curl up and close his eyes, never to open them again.

There. Someone was there ahead, coming into his mental feelers' range.

The hunt had begun.

Along the wall ran a ridge, and further up there were cavities let into it at regular intervals. Once they might have been used as storerooms, but now they were just as empty and forgotten as the rest of the sub-basements. Pulling himself up and using the ridge as a foothold, the Phantom deposited the things he did not need in one of those cavities. As he had more or less expected, his quarry had chosen one of the completely lightless regions to lurk, so he would have to follow the strategy he had made up in the first place. Leaping back down, yet not before snatching out a length of strong rope from the folds of his discarded cloak, he made his way more swiftly, but feeling ahead more regularly than before, as well as glancing behind more frequently, knotting the rope into a noose automatically, without paying much attention to it. Storms of wrath were raging in his head unleashed, but at their very centre, he was calm, and deep in concentration. Now he had picked up the trail, he would not lose it again. Not this time.

Never again.

The water grew deeper as he entered a tunnel mouth forking off to his left, due to the few steps leading down into it. Soaked up to his chest, the Phantom muttered a curse. One more thing that sneaking creature would have to answer for! He advanced more carefully now, while he tried to chase away the biting cold by the memory of Christine's warm body against his. He could feel her presence, too, so close and strong, but he dared not reach out to her because he knew it would only distract him now. He would have her again when he was done here, once more before he died, and gnaw her pretty neck once more…

Without warning, the hated green eyes appeared ahead, glowing like a pair of twin candle flames in the darkness. Cursing his own folly for allowing the thought of Christine to distract him nonetheless, the Phantom dived towards the tunnel wall. None too early, for something large and heavy splashed into the water where he had just been, gurgling past him on its way to the bottom. A piece of rock, he assumed, yet he did not give it much thought. Resurfacing, he immediately employed a simple old trick. "You missed", he stated jeeringly, projecting his voice about three feet to his left, where Lionel's missile had struck. Simple, but extremely irritating. Yet he did not wait for his enemy to throw another rock at the same spot, but instead dived again, keeping close to the wall. He had been able to make out what he had wanted to know, which was Lionel's exact position, and this was all he needed. The intruder might see perfectly in the darkness, and he might even know his way around here, which spoke of a perfect sense of orientation, but there was one thing he certainly did not realize: That broad barrier he was squatting on, seemingly putting a dead end to the flooded corridor, in fact contained a low opening in its middle, which led through a tunnel of about six feet's length to the other side.

Diving towards the obstacle, the Phantom felt his features shift into an expression of grim satisfaction. This was going to be easy. Much too easy. But, oh, the cruel joy of it…

He reached the low passage, memorized its exact location, then allowed himself to break the surface again for a mouthful of air, air that felt strangely warm in comparison to the water, which fountained up around him, slapping against the barrier. The eyes were directly above him now. "Come down and get me", he taunted his rival, and he saw Lionel's shape, outlined in the darkness, jerk out of its crouching position, as if about to pounce –

Without waiting any longer, he dived again, letting himself sink down to the bottom. However good Lionel's eyes might be, however clearly he might see in the complete night down here, there was no way he could perceive a black-clad shape covered by five feet's depth of dark water. Careful not to disturb the water too much even then, even when the eagerness to kill was making him tremble with anticipation, he pulled himself along the corridor floor, through the opening and out into the chamber at the other side.

If he had not known from his earlier experiences that his target was not too intelligent, he would have assumed that the existence of this underwater passage would be only logical to any other, even if he had no idea of its existence. Why else would there be a chamber behind the barrier otherwise? There was no way out of it except the narrow shaft leading up from a niche in the opposite wall, and this was difficult to spot, even with perfect night sight. Maybe Lionel would start wondering eventually, but until he did, the Phantom would have had time enough to catch him by surprise. Just a few seconds would do, and that loathsome intruder would certainly grant him those.

The Phantom snorted inwardly. This Lionel was even more stupid than Raoul de Chagny, and that one was practically an imbecile!

As he resurfaced once more, he tried to keep it as noiseless as possible, hoping the cover he had created by disturbing the water at the other side so hard was still sufficient. He could make out Lionel's outlines on the barrier above him, standing upright now, with his back turned to him, undoubtedly staring at the place where he had last seen his supposed victim. The fool! However, the Phantom did not doubt that he was listening for any other sound in concentration, and he tried to be as silent as possible while easing one of the daggers in its sheath, then readying the noose to throw. "Can't you find me?" he mocked him, projecting his voice to the spot Lionel was supposedly still staring at, and the other man visibly tensed, leaning slightly forward…

Now or never. Pulling himself up onto the barrier forcefully, the Phantom threw the noose, despite at the same time climbing the partition to the corridor outside aiming precisely. The coil of rope descended towards his quarry's head, ready to settle around his neck –

Lionel's hand shot up and snatched the rope out of the air, brushing it aside, then he turned around even as the Phantom was swiftly scrambling to his feet, snarling throatily.

Whipping the dagger from its sheath, the Phantom ducked under a clawing hand, then threw himself against his enemy hard, slamming him into the wall, grabbing Lionel's wrist as he tried to lash out at him once more, feeling Lionel's fingers clasp around his own wrist in turn to hold the dagger away from him. He was carried by his own hatred now, swept along on a violent flood, and at the same time all his wrath was screaming inside him, screaming for blood and death and destruction. Bringing up his knee, he made it collide with the other's body hard, causing him to bend into a peculiar half-crouch, hissing and spitting like an animal as he did so. They struggled viciously, each trying to free his hands. Throwing his head sideward, Lionel snapped at the Phantom, his teeth clicking audibly together as the Phantom withdrew at the very last moment, loosening his grasp on Lionel's clawing right hand. His enemy broke free, but at the same time their gazes interlocked, and at once Lionel's mind lay bare to the Phantom. It was a simple mind, the Phantom noticed as he took control, his own will drowning the other's easily as it swept through his head, turning Lionel's assault into a weak, useless sweep at his leather vest, a mind very uncomplicated in its thought pattern, just like an animal's. This one was easy to control, and he would not be able to break free on his own.

Releasing his grip on his captive, the Phantom allowed himself a triumphant grin. Almost done. Almost. "Move", he commanded.

Lionel climbed down into the cold water obediently. He had to have come the same way, the Phantom reasoned, yet his clothes had been dry until he had forced him back into the water. That left only one possible answer: Lionel had waited here for some time, waited on the ground, in the shadows of his own choice for him to come. He had had a clear advantage this way, but it had gained him nothing. Nobody, nobody in the world could stand against the Phantom of the Opera!

Pushing his captive ahead roughly towards the niche, then through the short shaft leading upwards, the Phantom felt something close to satisfaction through all the storms of rage and hate. They would learn that coming here had been a mistake! First Lionel, then the one who had spread those thread-nets through the dark corridors, then the whole rest of them. They were all going to pay.

Again he felt them, all the invisible eyes staring at him from the shadows behind, but this time he did not turn. Nothing, nothing in the world was going to spoil this small private victory.

Lionel flinched as he emerged into the chamber above. Dim as it was, with sparse grey light coming through a large grille sat in the floor, it still seemed bright compared to the utter darkness whence they had come. Ushering him into a corner mercilessly, the Phantom now had the chance to regard him more closely for the first time. The man's shimmering eyes were set into hard, even though somewhat lined features. His dark hair was an untidy tangle of short curls, his chin and cheeks as well as his upper lip covered in rough stubble, at least a week old. Those shadows in his face were flecks of dirt under closer surveillance; it seemed that his excursions down here had been his first bath in some time, as well as the first washing of his ragged clothes. He smelled like it, too. The Phantom wrinkled his nose. After dealing with that one, he would clean himself thoroughly. When he went to die, he would go proud and upright, and unsullied by lowly creatures.

But back to business. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, careful not to break the eye contact to exert the fullest control possible.

Lionel responded without hesitation, his glowing eyes oddly unfocused. "I came with the Master." His voice sounded husky, as if his vocal cords were seldom used.

"Who is this Master?"

"He –" Lionel broke off, his mouth working soundlessly, as the Phantom suddenly felt the web of invisible threads around him pulse and throb, then constrict – and then there was something else inside Lionel's head, fighting for control, something that had not been there before. His captive shuddered, his eyes bulging and roving, his hands clawing around him. Very slowly, the Phantom felt how he was forced backwards, out of Lionel's head. Already those animal eyes were sliding into focus again, and Lionel's mouth became a snarling maw as he threw his head aside and once more snapped at him –

Instinctively the Phantom raised up the dagger he was still carrying in his hand and plunged it into Lionel's side, burying it deeply in the man's flesh. The clawing became aimless thrashing. Again the Phantom stabbed, this time ramming the blade straight into his opponent's chest, feeling something warm spill over his hand, then stepped back from him. With a howl Lionel threw back his head, thrashing still as he slid down along the wall to the ground, the life draining out of him like a stream of liquid light, leaving his mind dark and empty. Curled up on the ground, he twitched a few times convulsively, then lay still at last. The sensation of the threads pulsing dwindled away, out of the Phantom's awareness.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he knelt down beside the fallen man, trying to make his racing pulse slow down. There was no need for caution now; Lionel clearly was dead, beyond recall. After all, he had experience enough with that. Enough men had died with him standing over them, watching their death throes, in his early times with horrid fascination, which had later on turned into dark, deep enjoyment of a mystery he did not wholly understand, not even after all those years he had spent studying it, but which nonetheless gave him a most satisfying feeling of power, and of at least a little bit of retaliation for all he had gone through.

However, it had not been a truly conscious kill this time, not like it usually was. He had acted on instinct, defending himself. This was not the way it should be. Not the way he had wanted it to be. Anger flared up in him anew. Not a proper way to take revenge!

It was then that something caught his eyes. Lifting up one of the fallen man's hands, he now saw that each fingernail had a thin, delicate tip like a cat's claw. And taking those eyes into consideration… This one was not entirely human.

Steadying his breathing, he considered the possibility that he was indeed not the only one who was different. Did Lionel bear some kind of outward markings, like he did, or did he only stand out by his eyes and claws and his sharpened senses? One of those others lurking down here, Adhemar, obviously had a disfigured face, too, while the one calling himself Aeternus had a deformed hand, and both had those markings distinguishing them, just like him, on their right side. Was there any thing this Lionel…?

His right side. Of course. Twice that creature had tried to bite him, each time throwing his head and turning it, turning it _so that he faced him with his right side_.

Prying Lionel's jaws open carefully, the Phantom saw the answer. While the teeth on the left were absolutely normal, those on the right rose from their sockets like scattered icicles, sharp and thin, the flesh darkened around them as if rotting.

Letting Lionel's head fall back, the Phantom considered it. Adhemar, Aeternus, Lionel, and himself. Each bore some kind of marking, of disfigurement, on his right side. It could not be coincidence. There was something they had in common, something they shared.

Their own flesh and blood, this Adhemar had called him.

The Lost Ones. Who were they? Who was he?

_What_ was he?

The chill was stronger than ever, making him shiver, and he doubted it was from the cold alone.

And the eyes were still there, teasing him, taunting him, making him want to glance behind.

Enough of that. Gathering himself up, he pushed Lionel's lifeless body back into the corner with his foot, then hauled up the large grille with some effort. Time to change into dry clothes. He would go and retrieve his things now, after he had washed the blood off him and his weapon.

The threads of darkness were still there, mocking him, eluding him, laughing at his helpless ignorance.


	21. V To the Dungeons

**V. To the Dungeons**

Poling the boat along the flooded corridor, Meg wondered if this really was the right thing she was doing. Helping the Phantom! The Phantom needed no help, or else he would not have been the Phantom. And just because her mother seemed to be worried… Her mother had the tendency to worry about things requiring not the least of such feelings. Moreover, she had no idea where in this labyrinth he was exactly, where she should start looking for him.

Those… _others_… might as well find her first.

She shuddered at the idea, quickly banishing the thought from her mind again.

Her mother would have something to say about this if she found out, and there was no doubt she would. There was only so long one could go looking for something, which Meg had vaguely claimed before hastily pulling on the Phantom's things, then coming down here. Her mother would have something to say to this, and this for certain.

Part of her was eager to turn back by now, but the other, probably boldened by wearing the Phantom's shirt and trousers, was determined to go on. If she could not help him much, then she might at least be able to distract those intruders long enough for him to finish the job.

Again an idea she did not want to ponder any closer.

Suddenly a voice came from everywhere, whispering to her, "Where are you going, little one?"

At first she froze in shock, almost dropping the pole, but then realized who it must be, and relief flooded her with warmth. "Where are you?" she inquired back, looking around her eagerly. Her surroundings were visible clearly enough, illumined not only by the pair of lanterns in the boat's prow, but also by a few pale rays of grey light, falling into the cellars through narrow slits near the ceiling. The corridor seemed to be broadening ahead, the light increasing. There were niches in the walls, above iron bars set into them, but none of those niches around her held the Phantom, as far as she could see.

"I'm watching you…"

"Yes, I know", Meg answered impatiently, leaning on the pole while turning her head this way and that, "but from _where_?"

"Here." Very suddenly his partly masked face appeared directly before hers, just a hand's length from her own, so that she was looking straight into his eyes at once, only that it was upside down. With a terrified squeak, Meg fell backwards, sitting down on the bench behind her hard. The pole slipped from her grasp, and she could snatch it back up just in time before it rolled off into the water. "That", she panted, " was _mean_!"

He only grinned at her, hanging from a single iron bar across a wide opening in the ceiling by his knees, dangling slightly, with his arms crossed and appearing very much at his ease. While his clothes, black trousers and white shirt, just like hers, were completely dry and hardly crumpled up at all, his hair was a moist tangle, as if hastily rubbed more or less dry and then not combed, just left at that. When he was hanging upside down like that, it seemed rather longer than she had guessed it was. "Won't you come up?" he suggested, a slight tone of mocking in his voice.

"How?" Meg asked, getting back to her feet and rubbing her backside angrily.

"Get the boat towed first."

Following his instructions, she fixed the boat to one of the iron bars above the water's surface and stowed the pole in one of the niches, then, with some difficulty, brought the boat into a position with its length across the corridor's width. "Right. What now?"

"You either jump up from where you stand and grab that bar I'm hanging from, or you climb up along the sides."

Meg considered the possibility of jumping briefly, but immediately dismissed it again because the bar in question was rather high up. "I think I'll try a side", she said, though doubtfully. Those niches were rather high up, too. "How do I reach the ceiling from there?"

"You'll have to jump, too, only sideways."

"It's way too far", Meg protested. "I'll never get up there!"

"You might at least try."

Meg sighed. She would not give up that easily. Since both options involved leaping up, she might as well do it straight away, without any attempts at climbing which might well turn out to be failures in the end. Suddenly the boat felt rather unsteady below her feet, and she feared that if she missed the bar and fell back down into it, it might well keel over and roughly deposit her in the cold water. But she would at least try. She would try.

Leaping up as hard as she could, she missed the bar beside his knee by a mere inch. Steeling herself for an uncomfortable plunge into the water as she fell back down, she suddenly found herself hanging in midair, with his arms around her middle. "Wouldn't want you to come crashing down on the deck like that", he remarked, his voice sounding somewhat muffled from somewhere at her stomach. "Right, I'll lower you back down –"

"Not a good idea", she said, looking down.

"Why?"

"Because the boat moved over towards the side when I jumped. There's only water beneath me."

From the movement against her waist, she could tell that he was shifting around his head, trying to locate it. "Can't see a thing", he muttered into her shirt. "But I think if I swing you over a bit and let go at the right instant –"

"You just said you couldn't see a thing!" she protested. "You'll just drop me into the water!"

"I won't!"

"You will!"

Muttering a curse which would surely have had her mother at least raise her eyebrows warningly, he shifted his grip on her, squeezing her uncomfortably tight. She seriously wondered how long he would be able to hold her. "Hold on to me", he ordered, probably thinking just the same.

Meg did so, wrapping her arms around him. It did not make her feel much safer, only a bit less foolish. This was the most awkward position she had ever been in with a man, it occurred to her, and she had been in plenty of awkward positions with men during ballet practises and performances. None of those had ever felt _that _awkward.

"I'd try and lift you up", he said, "only you're a bit in the way."

"So what am I supposed to do about it?" It was all his fault! Meg wished her mother were here to box his ears… but then again, better not. Her mother might well find that Meg needed her own ears boxed just as well for coming down here on her own.

"Now listen, the water is not that cold –"

"No!" Meg shrieked, and the only thing which kept her from fidgeting with anguish was the fact that he might drop her even sooner if she did. "It was cold enough yesterday!"

Again he cursed to himself, and Meg feared that he would drop her anyway, however hard she protested. Then, suddenly, he said, "Here's another idea. Can you climb up?"

"How? And up where?" This was absolutely insane, and the craziest situation she had ever found herself in! If she had not been in danger of landing in the icy water any minute, she might have laughed at the grotesqueness of it all.

"Up me, of course", he replied impatiently. "Or do you see a ladder somewhere? Come on, that damn bar can't be that difficult to reach from where you are!"

Meg felt her arms growing numb rapidly. Any move the Phantom made, even the heaving of his ribcage, growing heavier with the time passing, might loosen her hold on him and make her fall. His grip on her was still firm, but his breathing was ragged now. He was growing tired, too. Looking up, she saw the bar above her, dark and rusted. Maybe if she tried to reach it with one arm… Then she would have to hold on to him with one arm only, which probably wouldn't work. But it was the only chance she had, he was right about it. No ladder in sight, indeed.

However, climbing up along him would be something so awkward that it made the blood pound in her cheeks. She only hoped that nobody would ever find out about this.

"I'll try", she informed him. "But don't you let me fall when I let go!"

He muttered something affirmative that was lost in her shirt.

Very carefully, she released him with her right arm, for a moment feeling herself sagging down before his grip grew firmer, and she felt muscles tense and move under his shirt as he pulled her further up. Reaching out, she tried to grab the bar, stretched as far as she could, but it was too high up still, her fingers only grazed it. "I – can't – reach – it!" she panted.

Shifting below her, he doubled his efforts, managing to haul her up a little more. "Try – again", he breathed, obviously as much out of air as she was. Again she stretched, at the same time trying not to hack her chin into his groin – he would surely drop her if she did that –, and this time her hand closed around the bar, which was cold and slippery to the touch. "Got it!" she exclaimed.

"Hang on, then", the answer came from below, through gritted teeth, by the sound of it.

Now she had a hold, bringing up her other hand was not that difficult anymore, although there was a moment, while swinging up to put her other hand in place, when she dreaded that she would slip and lose her hold. He released her with a grateful sigh, and for a glorious second she just hung there from the bar, filled with pride at having managed to reach it after all – but then it dawned on her that she would have to pull herself up somehow to gain access to the chamber above, and she seriously doubted that she would be able to. "What now?" she asked, downcast. He would have to help her again, but she was reluctant to ask him to. He might be annoyed by it, after this embarrassing manoeuvre, and moreover, she was too proud to beg for help.

Anyway, it was _his_ fault, _he_ had talked her into this, so it was _his_ responsibility to get her up safely now!

He edged away from her, then somehow managed to bring himself up, and as Meg turned her head to see what he was doing, she saw that he now held on to a bar along the edge of the opening with his hands. "Here's a suggestion", he said.

Meg considered it. Of course, there was yet another bar along the opposite side, too, the one she was facing, but there was no way she could hook her knees around it, because it was too close to the edge. But maybe it would work as well if she just managed to get her legs up through the hole? "Very well", she said, trying to sound as calm as possible while her fingers began to hurt. "So you swing yourself up –"

"Actually", he interrupted smugly, "it was pure muscle work, but you can always try it the less elegant way if you like."

Meg snorted indignantly. Should she tell him that Raoul's manners were a lot better than his? Considering her current situation, she rather quickly decided against it. "Alright, you did it with your incredibly muscular stomach, and I'm very impressed with you. And what do you do now?"

As she turned her head again to face him, she saw that he was still grinning. "Watch", he said.

It looked like one swift twist of his body, and already he was sitting at the opening's edge to her left side, dangling his booted feet lazily. "You do _that_. Got it?"

Meg had certainly gotten the general idea, but he had been much too fast for her to know the details. That arrogant show-off! She betted that he had spent years learning this. But she did not want to give him another chance to be smug, and moreover, she feared that her hands were going to slip on the bar soon, so she swung up her legs with clenched teeth, at least managing to move them up onto the cavity's floor at the second try.

"You should always be able to support your own weight" the Phantom said lightly. "You ought to at least manage to pull yourself up somewhere…"

"Don't you dare tell me I have to lose weight or something!" Meg snapped at him, still without success trying to find a way to pull herself up through the opening completely. "For if you do… I'll kick you where it really hurts!"

"Then I'm not in any danger currently", he stated calmly, "because there's no endangered part of my anatomy you'd reach from down there."

Meg gritted her teeth. Who did he think he was? Yes, of course, he was the Phantom, but that gave him absolutely no right to behave like this, even if he thought it did! Apparently he was convinced that it only was necessary to be a gentleman if he felt in mood for it, or if there was no option he would be going to enjoy more, and that he could poke fun at her all he liked, even if her fingers were starting to get all sweaty, about to slip from their hold, and she was in danger of plummeting down headfirst… "You could at least help me!" she squeaked as one of her hands glided off the bar, making her stomach lurch with the expectance of the fall.

And there he was, just as if he had never just sat and watched her struggle, pulling her up through the opening easily and cradling her in his arms like a scared child. "Quiet, little one", he muttered soothingly. "I'm not going to let you fall."

Panting, Meg rested her head against him for a moment before she remembered herself and tried to sit up, ignoring the incident as well as she could. She had never realized how much her heart was racing while hanging there, in that accursed hole in the ceiling.

Helping her up, he said, in a very conversational tone, "Incidentally, don't let the dead body scare you."

"D…dead body?" she spluttered, involuntarily sinking back into the arms supporting her. She got a grip on herself immediately, yet stayed in her position a little longer, because it was quite comfortable. And besides, this way there was no dead body she could see, just his face above her, and she found that this was, apart from his irritating mask, rather nice to look at. She wondered briefly if he might get any more protective if she pretended to swoon now, but then dismissed the idea, because she did not want him to believe that she was a weak-minded coward.

"Our sneaky little green-eyed friend", he replied grimly, helping her to sit up and gently pulling her away from the hole in the small chamber's floor although it probably was quite obvious to him that she did not need it. "He'll creep around my Opera House no more."

Dread battled curiosity inside her, and before long curiosity gained the upper hand. "May I see?"

"I'm not sure if this is such a nice thing for you to look at", he said doubtfully.

"But thanks to you, he's hardly the first I'll see", she objected.

"There's quite a bit of blood, too."

Oh. Now this was something she had not seen before. "I don't mind", she assured him. What kind of man – or creature – was that green-eyed fellow? Somehow she had the idea that if she could not connect those eyes to a man, and, even better, to a man who was dead, they would not stop being in her nightmares.

"Well, if you are sure about this…" He shrugged and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "He's over there, in the corner." And with a mocking little grin, he added, "Feel free to faint, I'll be there to catch you."

Meg almost laughed out loud. Now this was something she had heard before, from her ballet colleague Xavier when he had tried to flirt once, not that long ago. "Looking for a reason to snuggle, are you?" she retorted, answering his grin.

"Me? I wonder where you got the idea", he said innocently, so innocently that Meg expected him to start twiddling his thumbs any moment.

"I don't think I'm going to faint", she decided to stand the game on its head, "but if _you_ feel like it, I'll be there to catch _you_."

His one visible eyebrow rose slightly. "I'll consider your generous offer."

If her mother could hear her now... She would certainly not appreciate what was going on here. But Meg wondered herself if this really was a good idea, flirting with the Phantom of the Opera in a dark chamber in the cellars where nobody ever came – apart from him, of course – and right beside a dead man, who had recently given her the worst scare she remembered, once again in a man's clothes, which had even belonged to the Phantom originally, and having come here after mumbling something entirely insufficient about looking for some item as an explanation for her mother. Her mother would box her ears for sure this time... if she wouldn't rather have her hide in strips, that was.

Shaking her head, Meg tried to shake off the uncomfortable premonition about what her mother would have to say. Of course she would have to say _something_, but she would do so whether Meg dwelled on it now or not, so she had better choose not to dwell on it any longer, at least not until a confrontation with her mother forced her to. Maybe she was going to be in trouble for this, but then she might at least enjoy now what was going to give her trouble later.

Beaming at the Phantom, she said, "I'd like to see the dead body now, please."


	22. VI You shall know me

**VI. You shall know me**

Madame Giry shook her head disapprovingly. "I really wonder why my daughter takes that long."

Christine shrugged. "Maybe she can't find what she's looking for."

"What _is_ she looking for, anyway? If she has mislaid any of her things again..." Madame Giry produced a sound like an impatient snort. "I hope she is not up to some kind of mischief."

Sitting back in his chair comfortably, Raoul wondered what kind of mischief Meg might be up to. He did not know her very well until now, but that she occasionally _was_ up to something had become clear to him rather soon. Well, maybe not occasionally, but frequently. How often he had seen that twinkle in Meg's eyes only yesterday, that prankster's look, and known that she had some kind of joke in store for them! Despite the fact that he had been the victim of several of these jokes, he liked Meg, and he had enjoyed her company, and now he hoped that she was not going to get herself into trouble with her mother, who seemed to be every bit as strict as his own.

"How is he?" Madame Giry asked, and Raoul did not even have to think to know who she meant.

"He is well", Christine replied. "I think I interpreted it correctly, when I said earlier on that he was probably... done with what he went to do. He is still somewhere down there now, but I expect him to come up again any time."

Raoul shifted uneasily. He was not entirely sure if it was good news that whoever had been sneaking around in the cellars was killed and the Phantom was well; he would have preferred to hear that they both had taken care of each other, with which his and Christine's problems would be over for good. And that the Phantom might come up again... He definitely was against this. Unconsciously he reached for his sabre, now lying beneath his chair, before he stopped himself. For some strange reason, which he did not understand at all, Christine did not want him to use his weapon against the Phantom. That Madame Giry disapproved was an entirely different matter; she had been friends with that... man once, but that Christine stubbornly refused to perceive him as the monster he was, this was something Raoul could not comprehend at all.

"Raoul?" Christine touched his knee, and he returned to reality straight away. "What's in that box under your chair?"

"Nothing", he answered vaguely, pushing it further beneath his chair with his heel. "Just equipment and stuff."

Christine gave him a frown. "What do you mean, equipment and stuff? What was it you fetched from the coach, apart from the sabre?"

"Er... cloaks. Yes, cloaks, and scarves", Raoul said brightly.

"What would we need cloaks and scarves up here for?" Christine inquired. "And besides, we didn't have that box when we came here."

Raoul shrugged, avoiding her eyes. "Yes, well... I picked it up because it seemed useful."

Abruptly Madame Giry rose from her seat, and Raoul was glad for the interruption. "If you will excuse me, I really should go and see if my daughter is still in her room, or where else she has gotten to." Both Raoul and Christine nodded their assent, and she swept out of the room, looking very stern indeed, muttering something under her breath, and Raoul thought he could just catch the phrase "box her ears".

"Would you care to tell me one thing?" Christine asked sweetly. "Why do our cloaks and scarves make such funny scrabbling noises?"

"I don't know." Raoul tried very hard to look surprised. "They've never done that before, as far as I know."

"Oh, Raoul!" Christine burst out laughing. "You're so perfectly silly sometimes! Come on, let me have a look!"

Raoul gave up. Sooner or later she would have found out anyway, and although he had meant it as a little surprise for when they came back home, he might as well show her now. He only hoped she would like the idea; he always had, but his father had refused for some reason. With an uncertain little smile, he pushed the suspicious box towards her, hoping that she would be pleased with him, or at least accept it if she wasn't. The odd scrabbling from inside increased slightly.

He watched her expectantly as she slowly lifted the lid. At first her expression was only that of curiosity, then her features suddenly lit up, and Raoul beamed, knowing he had done the right thing after all. "A _puppy_? Oh, and it's all small and fluffy! Where did you find it?"

"They were just chasing him out of the kitchens, the poor little bugger", Raoul explained. "A stray, it seems, probably put out by some heartless family who didn't want to keep him. You should have heard him, he was whining so pitifully... well, I told them I'd take him, and they provided me with a box to take him home in. And with a bit of sausage, but I think that's gone already. I thought because you compared me to a puppy yesterday – which was not exactly nice, in front of Meg, but never mind – that you might like to have one. Can we keep him?" he asked hopefully.

The small dog tried to lick her hand as Christine carefully lifted it out of its box. Its fur was black and dishevelled, but soft, and streaked with white at the muzzle and down along its chest and belly, and there were a few dots of brown, too. "Will you look at those big paws?" she exclaimed. "That one is going to be a large dog one day!" She scratched its flappy ears, and the dog started drooling onto her dress happily. "Oh, Raoul, you can't say no to anyone, can you?"

"So I can't keep him?" Raoul asked, crestfallen.

"Of course you can! If you want to have a dog, I don't want to be in your way. And besides, I like that one." The dog drooled some more, proving that it liked her just as well. "We'll have to get him a bowl and a basket and a leash and some toys..." Christine laughed. "Sounds like a funny day out shopping, doesn't it?"

Raoul agreed, glad that there would be no discussion now about if he was staying at home or coming along. After all, he was the one who had found the dog, so he had every right to. Well, actually Christine had made a promise about this matter, but then again, you never knew with women. It seemed that they were very devious and cunning at worming their way out of a promise once given. He tried to frown at Christine, but found himself smiling fondly instead. Even though he loved her more than his own life and possessions, he had to keep such things in mind, but having such thoughts around her was so very hard. Around her, all he truly wanted was please her, and have her smile at him.

But his own smile froze as he watched her bending down over the small bundle of fluffy fur on her lap and cocking her head sideways looking at it. There was… what? What exactly? How? Where did it come from? Not from him, certainly! Where, where the hell had she got it? "What's this on your neck?" he demanded, and his own voice sounded hoarse to his ears.

The dog flopped over onto its back, pawing the air, demanding to have its belly scratched. But Christine had almost forgotten it for now. "On… on my neck?" she asked, her pretty dark eyes going wide.

"Yes indeed, on your neck. Where did you get it?" A nasty suspicion was welling up in Raoul, a suspicion so wicked and vile that the mere idea made him sick. "It was _him_ again, wasn't it? Forcing his attentions on you?"

Christine's cheeks reddened, and she lowered her eyes in embarrassment. "I couldn't stop him", she whispered.

"That bastard!" Raoul roared, jumping to his feet so hard that the chair fell over with a crash, making the small dog yelp with shock. "That foul, disgusting, sneaking, dirty _bastard_! If he ever comes back out of his cellars, I'll kill him!"

"Raoul! Calm yourself!"

"No, I won't!" Raoul bellowed. "I'll get him this time! I'll kill him! He's never again going to touch my girl, let alone leave such marks on her neck! I'll kill him for that!"

"Raoul!" Christine was clutching the whining dog, with eyes even wider than before.

He was scaring her, he realized, and he was sorry for it immediately, but there were some things which could not remain unpunished. "Listen, my love", he said, forcing his voice to stay steady and calm, well aware that it sounded strained this way, "I can't have that monster put his dirty hands on you all the time. I spared him earlier on because you asked me to, and I still don't understand why, but there must be an end to it. And there will be. I will end this once and for all, Christine, all your fears, all the nightmares haunting you. I promised you to give you a world with no more night, and I mean it. This will be the last time he ever touched you, I promise. I'll make him see that he had better not meddle in my affairs. I'll have him know who he is up against." Raoul turned abruptly to glare at the door with clenched fists, willing the Phantom to appear again so he could show him what happened to twisted monsters who dared to molest his Christine. He would show him! He would make him realize who he was facing! Oh, how he regretted that he had not punched him in the nose earlier on! He should have, he should really have. And he would. As soon as the Phantom would dare to set foot in this room again, he would give him such a nosebleed that that foul creature would remember it for the whole rest of his miserable life!

"Raoul?" Christine's voice suddenly sounded… amused? _Amused_? No, it couldn't be! He would have to learn to interpret her tone correctly. "Raoul… I just realized… he's a she."

Raoul swivelled around on his heels to stare at her. "_What_? He looked male enough to me!"

Christine was smiling up at him, giggling softly. "That's because you didn't look closely enough."

What was going on? Raoul didn't understand a word of it. She must be making fun of him, there was no other explanation. "Christine, I'm serious", he said impatiently. "This is no time for silly jokes, and you won't stop me by pretending the Phantom is a woman."

"What? Oh, Raoul!" Christine burst out laughing, and although Raoul was actually indignant about her reaction, he could not help enjoying the sweet sound of her laughter. "Of course he's not a woman! I'm talking of the dog!"

"Oh." Raoul felt his shoulders sagging. He should have guessed so. Of course she could not have meant the Phantom; it had been rather obvious. Why hadn't it occurred to him? He felt foolish.

Because it was unimportant. Because it was absolutely unimportant if the dog was male or female if there was a murdering madman around, and leaving such vivid red marks on his beloved's neck! "Christine, you're just distracting me! I mean to deal with that monster stalking you, and you start talking about a _dog_! Look, as much as I enjoy fooling around with you, currently I'm not in the mood –"

He was interrupted by Madame Giry striding in, her expression sterner than ever. "Meg is gone", she said grimly. "And I have a pretty good idea where, too."


	23. VII Don't let them find you

**VII. Don't let them find you**

"Did you really think it would scare me?"

"Hah! Just listen to the way your voice trembles!"

"It doesn't!" Meg protested. "That's just what you think!"

"Of course it does!" the Phantom insisted, grinning wickedly and poking her in the ribs repeatedly so she twitched around and squealed. "Liar! Liar! Back of your pants on fire!"

Meg almost howled with laughter. "Aaargh! You bloody _jerk_!"

"Language, my dear", the Phantom grinned. "I bet your mother would box your ears for it." He did not cease poking her. "Do you know what happens to naughty little girls who swear? God hears everything you say, and is much, much aggrieved by it, and all the little angels weep for you."

"Do you know what happens to mean little boys who pester little girls?" Meg choked out, trying hard to fend him off. "The big bad devil with the trident comes for – eeek, will – you – stop – that?" She was rolling around on the floor by now.

The Phantom was over her on his hands and knees, still smirking, but then his expression changed, and he mimicked the one of a scared little child, with round eyes and a pouting little mouth. The white mask, normally so mysterious and intimidating, had never looked stranger on him. "What'th a twident?"

Meg clutched her sides, snorting uncontrollably. He was so perfectly _silly_! And this was the man before whom the entire Opera Populaire had trembled?

Very abruptly, as if he had read her thoughts, the Phantom withdrew, sitting down with his back against the chamber wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, "I'm forgetting myself", he stated, and at once his voice was cold and emotionless once more, and nothing of his former mirth remained on his features.

Disappointed, Meg sat up as well. She did not want him to stop. For weeks she hadn't laughed that hard, and she had enjoyed his being so close. Besides, despite twitching around on the floor, she had gotten a few glimpses down the front of his shirt while he had been kneeling over her, and it had been a rather nice view, in her opinion. "Please go on", she said, even though the once more distant look on his face told her it was useless. "I won't tell anybody."

He sighed, his shoulders heaving and settling with it. "You're so very much like your mother when she was your age", he said softly, gazing at the air above her head, as if lost in thought. "You remind me so much of her that it brings up things long forgotten." What was it in his voice, making it so gentle and distant at the same time? Sadness? A longing for a time long past?

"Did you… fool around with her?" Meg asked shyly, reluctant to disturb that calm, cold façade which was his face.

"All the time." For a moment a smile lingered around the corners of his mouth, but was gone in an instant. "Those days are over now. Nothing can bring them back. Not even you, combined with your mother's memory." Dusting off his knees, he rose to his feet. "Come on, I want to be finished with this. Don't stand in the way."

Getting up in turn, Meg wanted to point out that she had been sitting, not standing, but his sudden change of mood made her rethink this idea and decide against it. Silently she got out of his way as he picked up the corpse by the scruff of its neck and dragged it out of the boat, depositing it on the dry stone floor, just where they had been wrestling playfully earlier. To Meg, the message was clear enough, and sharp as the sting of a needle. He seemed to accept her in some way, probably because of her mother, but he did not want her to come too close. Although being cheered up so he could forget all his misery was something he needed very much in her opinion, he refused to let her. He barred her out of his life, out of his solitude.

"You didn't yet tell me why you've come", he said, and it was clear that this was not a question. It was a demand.

"I wanted to help you", she replied, because there was nothing else that came to her mind.

"I don't need your help", he said coldly, kicking Lionel's body so that it rolled over and lay on its back, empty eyes staring up at the ceiling through the grey gloom. It seemed to Meg that the Phantom's eyes were equally empty now.

"I didn't want you to be alone in the darkness", she tried again. Couldn't he just see that there was someone who cared about him? That she could be friend, if he would just let her?

"I'm always alone." Here he suddenly hesitated, and his eyes slid shut for a moment. When he opened them again, there was a note of urgency in his voice. "Change of plans. You must leave. Now."

No! He would not just send her away like this! "Why?"

"Because there's someone coming. Enemies. Take the boat, and continue in the direction we were going, then turn left at the first forking. You'll have to walk a bit, but it won't be far. The exit is backstage. Now go. They must not find you."

"I'm staying with you", she insisted. "I want to help you."

Suddenly he was towering over her, gripping her shoulders hard, and she froze in shock, her vision filled with the crumpled white fabric of his shirt. "I'd sooner kill you than let them have you", he growled, and she found herself trembling, knowing he meant it. "Now go. _Go_, curse you! I hate repeating myself."

Was this the man who had laughed with her only a minute ago? Was this the same man at all? He had been careful not to hurt her in their playful little fight, yet now he was pushing her ahead of him roughly, towards the boat, which was still smeared with the blood he had spilled earlier on. Yes, this was him, the cold, emotionless man who killed, and that jolly moment they had shared had only been a brief interlude. This was who he really was. This was the true Phantom.

Stumbling into the boat, almost slipping in a puddle of blood, she picked up the pole, feeling terribly empty inside. To think that only a short while ago she had considered him a friend… But he was nobody's friend. There was no place in his heart for friends.

"Wait." With one step he was in the boat beside her, but he did not spare a single glance for her. All he did was bend down to retrieve his cloak from where he had stored it beneath the bench, together with a bundle of other things, mostly wet clothes. Throwing it over his shoulders, he stepped out of the boat again, the cloak's velvety folds billowing around him. "Go now."

But Meg could not. Ready to push away out into the flooded corridor, she still stood looking at him, how he was standing over that only part-human corpse, like a part-human himself, so cold and distant. "What are you going to do?" she whispered.

"Face them at last." His features remained impassive, yet his eyes suddenly seemed to flash up with a searing fire. "And tear down the web of the threads of darkness, whatever the cost."

"Please be careful", she begged. "Don't let anything happen to you." But what did he care about if she was concerned or not? "My mother will be so worried about you." Maybe this was of a little more importance to him. Remembering her mother's words from only the day before – so long ago it seemed now! – she added, "Be safe."

His eyes bored into hers, cold blue wildfire. "My past is dead, and so is my future", he answered harshly. "And my present counts nothing."

"No, please." There was probably no point in pleading with him, but she tried nonetheless. "Don't throw yourself away for something that's not worth it."

Instead of a reply, he patted his trouser pocket as if looking for something, then reached inside and pulled something out, snatched her hand, pressed something small and hard into her palm and closed her fingers around it. "I'll be back for this", he said. Then he stepped back, gave her a formal, but clearly mocking bow, accompanied by a flourish of his cloak, and then he turned, and the shadows of a dry corridor swallowed him.

Slowly, breathlessly, Meg opened her hand. On her palm lay a diamond ring, glistening faintly in the darkness.


	24. BOOK FIVE: The Mists of Time

**Book Five: The Mists of Time**

I. Sculpted Angels  
II. The Devil's Child  
III. A Mother's Fear and Loathing  
IV. Make your Choice  
V. Down once more  
VI. Long ago  
VII. Rich Desire  
VIII. You cannot win  
IX. You are not alone

Author's Note: _First of all, breaking news: I've started on the book! Be proud of me._

_I've been looking forward to this. Nine chapters, and eight of them from the Phantom's point of view! I like that prospect… And it will give me the chance to explain some things you pointed out. Don't worry, everything happens for a reason. )_

_As you know, I've spent a few days on skiing holidays at Bad Gastein (lovely village in the mountains, but damn cold – we had -19° C on the last day!), but I did not want to be parted with this story, so I took the Phantom skiing, swimming and out for walks. I daresay we had some fun. g I managed to get him to take some clothes off in Book Five for your entertainment, but he fought me fiercely, so maybe if you ladies cheer him on a bit, he'll be more eager to do so in the future. ;-)_

_Right, this time I'm going to mention names._

_We'll start with Reading Redhead. For your taste, the Phantom gets out of character in Book Four, Chapter II. Maybe Chapter IV explains some things for you. If not… well, here's my statement: Of course I value your opinion, but for my taste he remains in character all the time, he's just in control of himself for once. If he weren't, he'd simply bash Raoul's skull in (which might have been enjoyable to write actually…), but this time he keeps a calm, cold façade, while still looking for a possible way to feed Raoul to the vultures. Yet he is not entirely sure how to deal with him, as hurting him would mean hurting Christine, and in his controlled moments he keeps that in mind, and it makes him hesitate. So what he does is mainly intimidation, and raining disdain on Raoul. I'm only working with the concept from the movie, so maybe that's the reason why I portray him as more outgoing, as you put it, and I'll readily admit that I have the habit of bringing in stuff of my own, especially if I haven't read the book. He just strikes me as someone who can jump from one mood into the next with barely a pause, and who is even worse than I am as far as this is concerned, so I thought it might work out. But thanks for not giving up hope in me. ;) Don't worry about school getting in your way, I know how it is. :) And how exactly can I drive you insane? g_

_As for Lady Razorsharp: You haven't been around since Book Two Chapter IV, it seems (box my ears if I'm wrong), but I trust you will turn up again soon. I like the way you manage to capture the whole situation in a few well-placed words. Thanks for being a faithful reviewer. :)_

_A.E. Hall seems to find it amusing, which is very reassuring, because I was actually aiming to be funny in places. The concept I'm using is a little like The Mummy, where horror is thrown in with comic relief (though there's a great lot more of humour than I am using)._

_Venus725__: I don't know about being a straight female lol but I assumed pretty much so when I saw the movie. Well, actually a (female) friend of mine told me so beforehand, when I said I was going to take my sister to see the movie. She said she had been drooling all over the Phantom while in the cinema (she always does that, it's a bit of a trademark of hers), and when I put down the phone, I scratched my head and seriously wondered about it, because I remembered Gerard Butler from Reign of Fire (seriously, guys, I knew the name), but I couldn't quite recall his face, and I wasn't even entirely sure if he was Creedy or Jared, which led me to the assumption that he must be plain (sorry, ladies, don't hit me), but I reconsidered this after seeing the movie. Will you let me join your club of Raoul-Kickers, by the way? ;) And yes, I know the Phantom's real name is Erik. But I wouldn't run around telling people my name was Erik if they already called me Phantom, now would I? ;)_

_sbkar__: Now _that's_ a marvellous new reviewer! My already inflated ego is going to explode someday soon! ) And you keep spotting stuff, you've seen me right through down to the core of my black soul (sorry, it just sounds so good). What you've noticed about the language the characters use brought me to the very verge of doing a happy little jig, because that's exactly how I try to bring in some additional characterization. Trust Meg to be clever and Raoul to do something foolish, you're perfectly right about them (especially Raoul, of course). And trust Madame Giry to box people's ears, or at least continue threatening them. With your tension breaker idea, you actually foresaw the punch-line from one of the last chapters… but I can say no more here. Thanks for offering a first name for Madame Giry as well, but I've already picked one for this Book; I hope it's to everybody's liking. Thanks even more for advertising this story among your companions. No, my sister hasn't read it yet, because her birthday is on March 23rd. And yes, it's always the ring… it came to me, my own, my love, my own, my precioussssss… gg (By the way, while re-reading The Hobbit recently, I had a sudden fit of mirth when I came to the passage which reads: _Down there by the dark water lived old Gollum_. lol I just can't help it.)_

_The pairing seems to be of interest to several among you. And I assure you, it's more complicated than I said in my last note. I was just too lazy to write a long explanation. ;-) Red spots a love triangle, which is absolutely correct (just wait for Book Seven Chapter II, I bet Venus725 will absolutely love that one! g), but not because I'm a fan of love triangles, they usually tend to get on my nerves, but because it sort of comes with the story. I can't help it. Which hopefully assuages Venus725's worries a bit. No, it's certainly not going to be that simple, not even in the end. I'm merely throwing in Meg to make it a bit more complicated. smirk Besides, my sister came up with the idea of involving Meg, and as this is for her, I'll have to keep it. Laura Kay sees the possibility of a relationship with Madame Giry, and I seriously considered this concept before I discarded it. A past involvement with her might get in the way later on, I'm only saying this much. Besides, it might make him Meg's father, and we don't want that. ;)_

_Viresse430__: Hate me, I'm such a faithless, wicked lad. g Currently I'm trying hard to get as far as possible until my sister's birthday, but after that I might finish that fifth chapter of "Junior Agent Redmount" I've been working on already._

_Nako-chan__: Chatter at me, I love it when you do that. ) But I'm afraid Othello won't come in until Book Seven. Can you wait that long? ;)_

_And now the one I saved for last: Slytherin Shieldmaiden/Krissy, of course. You know I value it greatly that you faithfully come over and read this although you haven't seen the movie. Your compliments and encouragement mean a lot to me, and you're the closest thing to a muse I have. hums to himself happily: Help me make the Music of the Night… This is not the place for love pledges, so I'm saving them for a different time, but you're getting them again, don't worry. All the time. Christine, I love you… (yes, I know it's Kristina, but I just can't help it gg)_

_To the rest of you, thank you very much for reviewing._


	25. I Sculpted Angels

**I.**** Sculpted Angels**

The eyes were still there, all around him, watching his every move. As were the threads, pulsing and vibrating, seemingly constricting around him as he made his way through the dark vaults of the Opera House. He did his best to ignore all of them for now. The time would come when he would deal with them, but for now… there had indeed been a change of plans. Still wrath was giving him wings, but there was something else, too: Those intruders might yet prove to be of use to him. If not, he could always kill them later on, but if he found they were… There were several half-formed ideas in his mind, and he was undecided as yet, but maybe in just a few more minutes' time he would be able to make his decision. And then, may God have mercy on the world, for the Phantom would not.

The girl was heading away, he could feel the awareness of her fading. Good. This was none of her business. She was not her mother. And it was none of her mother's business either, to be exact. What he was doing now was his own concern, his concern alone.

Maybe there would not be a Requiem after all.

And it had nothing to do with Christine, as well – except that this was over for good now. She had betrayed and rejected him, choosing some brainless fop over him, and he would not beg her to come back. He did not want to see her again. It was over, and he would never beg. Never! Never! No more tormenting himself, no more letting the grief bring him down. No woman, no woman in the world he would allow to have him suffer just because she chose to throw his own heart at his feet, and himself he would not allow to become a pathetic wretch craving for the affection of a woman who was not even worth it.

Furiously kicking a small piece of jagged rock out of his way, he strode down the dark corridor. What did he need a woman's love for, anyway? It would only make him soft and weak. All he truly needed was the occasional girl to satisfy his physical desire, and he would find a way of having them, as many as he wanted.

He was a fool not to have taken advantage of Claire Giry when he had had the chance! But no, he had been a stupid little boy, and he had been too decent to make her have him, even later on, after her husband's death, when it would have been so easy to take her. Decent! He snorted angrily. What a pathetic sentiment!

But he might yet have her daughter for a night or two. The girl looked nice enough, and was rather well built, too. And she was interested in a closer acquaintance, if he was any judge. Well, maybe not as close as that, but it would be easy enough to get her to do what he wanted. She was far too trusting, anyway. Maybe she would even come to appreciate it.

In this case, he would rip off his mask once he was done with her, just to hear her scream.

There was a voice somewhere at the back of his mind, telling him that he had better be grateful that there was someone not feeling repulsed by his touch, but right now he did not want to feel grateful. If he just hated everyone, pretending that everyone hated him as well, things were so much easier.

But still, the girl had managed to bring up in him something he had deemed long buried. She was so very much like Claire had once been, so long ago, back in those happy days when his only concern still had been getting something to eat and finding a good place to listen to the evening's performance. All those times they had laughed together, he and Claire, all those times they had spent being childish and extremely foolish…

No. He would not permit himself to relive those memories if it meant that someone was getting too close to him. Claire had been a friend, and apparently she still was, but her girl was just a stranger. A stranger invading his privacy.

Very well, if she wanted to be near him, this was what she would get. He would have her as he wanted her, and maybe she could offer him at least some satisfaction, if he thought of Christine hard enough while having her.

It did not feel exactly right towards her mother… but he would consider it the price of letting Claire see his weakness.

Foolishness. Claire knew about all his weaknesses.

But still, there was no reason to go flaunting them before her, and even feel relieved for doing so. It was utterly disgraceful, and it was never going to happen again.

His fists clenched by his sides. This shame alone should have earned him death.

Death. It was a thought always returning to him, a desire to be done with it all, just like an offer of sanctuary. It was tempting, but on the other hand… he did not need a sanctuary. He could cope on his own, and he was too proud to admit defeat.

And all the same, the serene beauty of the thought of sleep, sleep for all of eternity… No more memories, no more pain…

No. Not yet. There was still something he had to do, although he was suddenly not that sure anymore what exactly. And he deserved the pain. He deserved to suffer. He deserved to burn in Hell for having claimed a place in paradise.

A fallen angel, and far from Heaven.

Only that he had never been an angel in the beginning, despite what Christine had believed. He had lied to her, and she had every right to treat him as she did, to make him suffer.

And then again, she had not! Who did she think she was, tormenting him like that? After all he had done for her? She was but what he had made of her, his creature, nothing more! She was his, his alone!

He really should not have kept his temper in check with that impertinent little slimeball earlier on. He should have kicked him down the stairs and up again at the very least. No, he should have –

At once he froze and shrunk against the rough tunnel wall. There was something wrong, very wrong indeed. He had been following his awareness of a stranger all the time, and for some time he had been getting closer, but now… The distance between them had stopped changing.

Forcefully shoving his fury to the darker recesses of his mind, he waited, making no move. Still the distance stayed the same. After some time he took a few strides ahead, then halted once more, once more feeling out for the stranger's position. Again the distance had not altered.

A trap. Just as he had thought.

Once more he had to force down his anger, but this time at the intruders. Did they really take him for such a fool?

Or maybe they were just very confident he would come. He only wondered what gave them such confidence.

Those threads. They were pulsing again, gently but clearly enough, creeping into every corner. But around him, they seemed to leave a patch of open space, as if reluctant to touch him… or as if somebody down there in the darkness did not want to reveal himself yet.

But if he continued the way he was heading, this somebody would have to turn up eventually.

Determinedly pulling his cloak around himself, he strode on through the darkness.

They had to be aware of the fact that he had killed Lionel. That… power he had struggled with for a moment, before he had stabbed the creature, that power must have been the same as the one controlling those threads.

The Master. Lionel had mentioned him, as had those other two, Adhemar and Aeternus. It must be the Master, whoever that was.

As he climbed down a staircase not too far from his lair, the one ahead of him suddenly stopped. For a moment the Phantom hesitated, almost regretting that he had left his sabre and daggers as well as another length of rope in the boat. But no, everything would go as planned. That one was just there to receive him.

And if not, he did not need weapons to deal with his enemies. Weapons were only there to make things more enjoyable.

At the foot of the staircase, he recognized the mind out there, waiting for him in the darkness. He had not truly reached out this morning, for fear the intruders might discover his presence, yet he had still felt them, and this one ahead of him was definitely one of them.

At least he knew who to expect now.

Tugging at the collar of his cloak so he would make a perfect impression, he turned a corner, knowing now not only where he was ultimately heading, but also that he would meet the man awaiting him this very moment. He was calm, completely calm, and ready for the confrontation.

With Claire's description in mind, it was very easy to recognize the scarred face illumined by a flaming torch. "We meet at last, Adhemar", he stated. And Heavens be damned, what scars! He would readily exchange his own burn marks for those!

"Phantom", Adhemar growled. He was definitely brighter than Lionel, for he was careful not to meet the other man's eyes. His features, however, were easy enough to read: a very poor display of hiding pure loathing. Had it not been this very man who had called the Phantom his own flesh and blood, only a few hours ago? Did Lionel's death cause this sentiment in him? To the Phantom, there was no other reason, at least not an obvious one. Maybe there existed a very subtle reason, but he could not tell yet, not when Adhemar was not looking at him directly.

But he would find out, he was certain of that.

"Follow me", Adhemar said gruffly, his black cloak billowing out behind him as he turned on his heel sharply and started down the corridor. The Phantom very barely suppressed a snort. Was this all that fellow could do with his cloak? He himself could do that much better. If he let his cloak billow properly, Adhemar would probably die with envy.

As the Phantom had assumed, they soon arrived outside the very hall where Meg had first glimpsed Lionel. Something had changed, however: The air, normally cold, carried a heat it had never yet reached even on the hottest summer days, and there was a reddish light cast out into the corridor, just like the glow he had seen this morning.

The threads were stronger here, tighter, intricately interwoven, and stood out clearly in his consciousness. Their source was near now, very near.

Adhemar stopped and turned, again careful not to let their gazes meet. "In here", he said, waving the hand holding up the torch, so that its light flickered, making the shadows dance.

Very well. Here he was. Now he would see who he was up against, and decide what to do with them. Sauntering to the doorway, he tried to convey a sense of calm that was not exactly what he was feeling inside. Under the arch, he halted, right between the pair of cherubs hewn from the stone and under the source of the red light, surveying what he saw.

There were more than he had expected. Many more. Due to their huddling together, he could not quite put a number to them, but he estimated that there were about thirty assembled, if not more. Some stood out clearly among them, especially a pair of unusually tall, broad-shouldered ruffians with long, untidy manes, one blond, one black; others were cowering on the floor, along the two lines of braziers they had put up along the hall's length. Quite stylish, he had to admit that, and not only useful for lighting, but also to heat a room considerably. He might keep a few once he was done with this lot. And all eyes were fixed on him. Not that this worried him, his stance was perfect, after all; it merely increased his slight uneasiness. They had indeed been waiting. They had been expecting him.

Lazily shifting his cloak, he let his eyes wander along the lines, wondering where their so-called Master was. There was a man with a rather common face who was watching him very closely, flanked by a pair of fair-haired fellows, and the fact that this one wore only one glove made him assume that this might be Aeternus. Further along the line stood an old man whose face was partially hidden by a hood; it did not surprise the Phantom anymore that it was the right side the man was hiding. Could it be this one, maybe?

How many of those assembled bore markings like his own, dooming them to a life of outcasts for the rest of the world? How many of those were… his kin?

Who were they? They had to tell him. They had to give him some kind of explanation at last.

Standing between the sculpted angels, he almost smiled at the irony of it. Only a short time ago, he had been an angel, too, Christine's Angel of Music, but then he had allowed her to discover his identity, and he had been cast out from Heaven. And precisely in his darkest hour, these strangers arrived, these strangers which were marked like him, and once more he found himself amid angels… How he wished he could truly be once more the Angel he had once been, even though it had been nothing but a lie! Christine had trusted him then, trusted him and loved him.

She had loved a lie, then.

Drawing himself up proudly, he made his voice resound through the vast cavern. "Who are you, and who speaks for you?"

There was movement ahead, and the lines parted reverentially, revealing a towering dark shape coming towards him.

And then the threads of darkness exploded inside his head, and he knew no more.


	26. II The Devil's Child

**II. The Devil's Child**

What happened next remained blurred in the Phantom's recollection, however hard he tried to remember later on. As for how he had actually entered the cavern, there was a gaping black hole in his memory. The next thing he could recall was already standing in its middle, between the two lines of braziers, surrounded by many, many eyes, while one single eye was in front of him, and he believed to see the sky outside through it. He recalled a feeling of dizziness, but not much more.

There were voices, too, drifting through his consciousness like through thick fog. Those two tall and overly muscular fellows were with him, growling at those milling around them. Some words he caught, but they made no sense to him anymore. There were only a few which stayed in his mind and remained burned into it, repeated in shouts as well as in whispers, all around him: "The Devil's Child…" Adhemar was at his shoulder – whence had he come so suddenly? – holding him back, although he did not know why. And there was a face in front of him, one single face, round and bearded and ugly, with darting little eyes and a wide, sneering mouth… a short, fat man with a dark complexion, his long black hair, heavily flecked with grey in places, a matted, tangled mass. "Let's see about that one", the man said.

And then there appeared a second face before him, a young woman's. She was red-headed and might have been considered pretty, if not for that look of impertinence on her features, and that grin which exposed a mouthful of bad teeth. The grin widened as her hand came up to snatch his mask away, and he winced as the hot air suddenly touched his at once unprotected right cheek. "Well, well, my beauty", the woman cackled. "How are we doing now?"

"That's him", the dark-skinned man said. "He's too young, but it's him. You don't forget that face too easily."

"This will do, Kalo." The dark, deep voice reverberated in his skull, but he could put no name or face to it as yet. As the name was mentioned, a faint recollection stirred somewhere in the recesses of his mind, but he could not think clearly enough. "You too, Fifi. Hand over his mask."

The woman – Fifi – disappeared from his field of view, simpering about something he did not quite understand, leaving only the fat little man for him to look at. "Remember me, son of an animal?" he sneered. "You killed my uncle to get away from us, but now your past has caught up with you at last."

Kalo… Yes, he remembered now. A fat, stupid boy a few years younger than he had been, a filthy gypsy, always tormenting him, throwing pebbles at him through the bars of his cage, poking him with a stick when he tried to sleep, calling him names… Once, on one of the rare occasions where he had been let out of his cage to do some work, he had at last gotten his hands on this Kalo and given him a severe beating, which had been very satisfying. The lashing he had received later on from Kalo's uncle was a very strong – and very painful – memory, though.

A few years younger. He was quite certain Kalo had been younger than he was, and there the man stood before him with as much grey in his hair as black and with his round face lined, whereas he had merely grown to manhood, and then as good as stopped changing. It was the same with Claire Giry, when he considered it. She had been only a little older than he was, but now it seemed that the interval between their ages had increased. Strange. It had never occurred to him before.

"_Get out of my way, Kalo_." The voice was like a sharp, deep whip-crack, and the gypsy flinched violently and grovelled his way out of sight.

He was replaced by a tall man in flowing black robes, dark-haired yet light-skinned, with sharp features, as frozen as if hewn from marble, and a broad slash of a scar from his high forehead down to his right cheek, below his temple, right across his right eye. To cover what was probably an empty socket, he had tied a scrap of black silk around his head. The gaze of his left eye, which was bright blue, was very intense, like a drill set to the Phantom's skull. "At last you have come, boy", he said, his voice, cold and deep, making the Phantom's mind vibrate. "I am known as Créon, but you will call me Master."

The Phantom could almost see the threads now, a fiery, flaring spiderweb with a looming dark shape in its centre. So this was the Master. He almost shivered as he realized that the sensation of those threads was all around him, engulfing him, enmeshing him just as a spider's wrapped-up prey. This man was stronger than he was. Much stronger.

"Do you have a name?" Créon demanded.

"I'm just known as the Phantom." He was content at the way his voice remained calm, quite cool. "Or Opera Ghost, if you want. There is no other name."

The man before him chuckled, a rich, dark sound which made a hint of cold gently glide down along his spine. "Oh, is that truly so… Erik?"

Only his clenched teeth prevented him from gasping. "How -?" That name had not been uttered for years, and besides, there was only one person apart from him who knew it. It was a very personal thing, linked to some of the fondest among his memories. How could _they_ know?

"It's there in your mind, boy. Written as clearly as in a book."

"Why do you ask, then?" he demanded defiantly, at once feeling as vulnerable as not even Christine's leaving him had made him feel.

"It is so much more delightful to hear it from your own lips." Créon smiled, but his one blue eye stayed the same, cold as the winter sky. "How many years since you left your home, sold to the gypsies? And all the time thinking you were alone? But now, boy, you have truly come home at last."

"I'm not a child", the Phantom growled.

"Is this what you think? Bertrand, will you come over here and tell the boy your age? And show him your face, so he knows his family."

The old man the Phantom had noticed before stepped out of the throng obediently, throwing back the hood of his rough black cloak to reveal a face bashed in on the right side as if from the blow of a giant fist, broken, uneven bone structures stretching his skin tight. "This spring", he said softly, "I will be one hundred and seventy-three years old."

"You see?" Créon asked, still smiling. "And Bertrand is but one of the lesser of our kind."

But all the Phantom could do was stare at the old man. _One hundred and seventy-three_? Seventy-three he might have believed, although Bertrand moved like he was somewhat younger, yet one hundred and… _Nobody_ could be that old! Except… There was so much he did not know about himself, he realized, about what he truly was. This man, this impossibly old man, was like him, with a distorted face just like his own, of his own kind – although the kind of disfigurement displayed before him, that asymmetric, smashed skull, and even the side of the jaw irregular, made him feel handsome without a mask for the first time in his life.

"Yes, it looks rather bad, doesn't it?" Créon spoke lightly, as if talking about the weather. "Not the worst I have seen, though." With a lazy wave of his hand, he motioned some of the assembled to come forth. "But it is time to introduce you to the rest of your brothers, now.

"I have already introduced you to Bertrand. Now turn your attention to those two beside him." He was nodding at the pair of long-maned, muscular men. "First, I will present you to Atrox." The shorter one, with black hair and almost impossibly wide shoulders, inclined his head briefly. There was a patch of what seemed to be small boils and sores on his right cheek, and another further down over his collarbone, disappearing into his rough linen shirt. "The other is Ferox." The second of the pair towered a head above everybody else, and his straw-coloured hair hung down past the middle of his back, enveloping his shoulders like a very rough veil. His eyes were dark and dull, without any gleam. Unlike his companion, his face was untouched by disfigurement, yet the sleeveless brown leather vest he wore showed that his whole right arm, down from his shoulder, looked raw and red, as if not covered by skin. "And there was Lionel", Créon continued, "but you have already taken care of him. Yet do not believe you have incurred my wrath by your deed, boy. Lionel was useful at times, yet he has served his purpose. I gladly exchange him for you.

"You have already encountered Adhemar, I believe? Good." For a moment the Phantom felt Adhemar's grip tighten on his shoulder, and he seriously considered pushing the man away, yet this was an unwise action if he was surrounded by at least thirty men, with at least one among them who had stronger mental powers than his own. "The acolyte every ruler could wish for, Adhemar", Créon continued in a conversational tone, shooting the man at the Phantom's shoulder the kind of glance one would favour a faithful hound with. "Obedient and reliable. He might well be my second in command, if not for his lack of brains." Créon sneered, and the Phantom felt Adhemar shift slightly beside him. "Still, he has a sub-dominant mind. Not a very strong one, at that, yet definitely strong enough to deserve the name. I am already considering letting you work alongside him for some time; he might set you a fine example when I hammer your stubbornness out of you."

The Phantom felt his hands clench into fists, and it took all his concentration to make them unknot again. So sure of himself this Créon was, so exceedingly arrogant! And there was nothing he could do about it; he felt helpless as a child, his mind ripped open and laid bare to a stronger one he could not fight. How foolish he had been, believing firmly he could overcome all those intruders on his own! But Créon could teach him humility, and he knew he would. And placing him just with Adhemar, with a man who seemed to direly hate him…

"Indeed he does, young Erik", Créon said, with apparent amusement, though his voice remained as cold as it had always been. "The two of you are contenders for the same woman's affection."

It was as if an icy hand had grasped the Phantom's heart. Adhemar was after Christine? And he was unable to protect her! If anything happened to her, it would be all his own fault, caused by his foolish pride. Oh, he deserved death ten times over!

Créon laughed, a derisive, unpleasant sound. "Truly you are a fool, boy! Wasting away in misery because some petty human girl refused you her hand! A hopeless romantic you are, and gone soft at heart! Love is but an illusion, young Erik, and you should be above such things."

"Especially tragic love", Adhemar hissed into his ear. "I bet you don't know the right way to behave towards a woman if you need one. I bet you didn't ever have one in your bed."

"Oh, but he did", said Créon remorselessly. What the Phantom would have given to have him keep quiet just this one time! "He let the queen of his heart rest in his own bed, but chose to watch her sleep and stay awake, and out of bed."

There was laughter, and not only from Adhemar. Several of the assembled servants chuckled, and Ferox and Atrox exchanged a smirk. "The innocent boy, our little Erik!" Adhemar sneered. "Maybe I should take this girl and show him what he is supposed to do under such circumstances?"

Forcing himself, with all the willpower remaining to him, to ignore the vile remark, the Phantom still felt his features twist into a grimace of fury. How could this ignorant brute dare to utter such a thing, to sully Christine's purity with his foul thoughts? The day would come when Adhemar would suffer for this. And however long he would have to wait, he still would see it done. Only with his blood Adhemar could wash away his debt.

"Hold your tongue, Adhemar", a soft voice suddenly spoke up, and the Phantom looked into the serious, plain face which he now knew to be Aeternus's. "What do _you_ know? Foolish the lad may be, yet it was noble of him. He had the girl practically at his disposal, and still he did not use her as he chose. With a man like that, I can work together, because I know that he is able to accept, and not only to grab all the things he can get, as you do it, with your petty mind so hungry for the only power you can get, which is nothing but illusion."

Again Créon smiled, and immediately Adhemar, who had been on the verge of launching himself at Aeternus, relaxed and stood still once more. "Well spoken, my eccentric friend", he said. "Though too noble an attitude will bring you nothing but your downfall. Maybe I should turn young Erik over to you, once I am done with him, so you can teach him how to cooperate, and he can teach Adhemar in turn." At the Phantom's shoulder, Adhemar winced at this prospect. "Boy, this is Aeternus, my other sub-dominant. His mind is a bit too independent for my taste, yet he possesses the intelligence Adhemar here misses."

Aeternus nodded, his calm blue eyes for a moment meeting the Phantom's. It was like gazing into a field of mist, a cloud hiding what lay behind it. "If you allow me, Master", he said, "I will take the Phantom aside to tell him about the rest he needs to know." He still called him Phantom. Could it be that Aeternus honoured in other men a quality that he himself possessed?

"The rest can wait", Créon decided coldly. "You can have some time with him later on. At the moment, I prefer to leave the boy in Ferox and Atrox's and the gypsies' care. That is to say, except one." Here he paused, and the one eyebrow not covered by the piece of silk cloth lowered considerably, making his high brow furrow. "Febis, I want a word."

From the mass of bodies closing in around them one dispatched itself, a tall, narrow-faced old man who held his white-haired head up proudly and walked with grace. "Master?" he asked, his voice full and deep.

"Kalo called young Erik here the son of an animal. Teach him about what it means to bear the Devil's Touch. And make sure he never again speaks the term _Devil's Child_ with disdain. Make sure he remembers the next time who it is he swore to serve." Without another glance at the Phantom, he turned on his heel and strode away, the servants parting respectfully to make way for him.

The Phantom stared after him, his thoughts swirling madly, and not only with dizziness. _What am I, what the flaming hell am I?_


	27. III A Mother's Fear and Loathing

**III. A Mother's Fear and Loathing**

_"Do you remember your parents?" Claire asked._

_He sighed, gazing out over the dark water which filled part of the cavern he had decided to make his home. "I don't know… I remember my mother, I think. But I don't like to remember her."_

_There was a moment's silence, then Claire whispered, "I'm sorry."_

_"Why?" he asked, surprised. This was probably the first time somebody had said this to him. No, she had said it once before, just after she had brought him here. The second, then – a remarkable number._

_"For asking.__ It's none of my business, really."_

_"No, I don't mind", he assured her. "Ask whatever you want."_

_"It'd be invading your privacy."_

_He laughed as if at a joke. "Feel free. I never had that."_

_Her slim hand found his, and she squeezed it gently. Was it possible that she truly _liked _him? "Does it hurt you to remember?"_

_"About my parents?"__ He shrugged. "Well, not about my father, because I don't recall ever having one. I _did_ have one probably, or what do you think?" he added uncertainly. His knowledge in this area was rather limited._

_"Of course.__ Everybody has a father."_

_"Yes. Right. And my mother… Yes, I think it hurts a bit. But not because I miss her. She never wanted me, and she was glad to be rid of me, I think. That was years ago now, I couldn't even say for certain how long. I wouldn't find my way back home, I think. And I don't care, because it's not really home, you see. I mean, I've been here for only a few days, but _this_ is my home, I think. At least, it feels like it. More than any other place, anyway. That is, if I can stay here. If you don't mind." Falling silent, he assumed that this was one of the longest times anybody had ever listened to him._

_"Of course I don't", Claire assured him, once again squeezing his hand. "You can stay here all you like, if you like it here. I'm glad if you do. Nobody ever comes down here, as I said, so if you are careful, nobody will find you."_

_"I will", he promised her. There was no need to tell him so; he was not too eager to meet anyone, anyway. "But if I'm really, really careful… do you think I can come up sometimes? Because…" Why was he reluctant to tell her? "Because of the music. I'd like to hear the music."_

_He looked at her expectantly, ready to take back everything he had said if it was not to her liking, but all she did was smile. "You like the music, do you?"_

_He hesitated. Somehow he felt that answering, revealing something so personal about himself, would make him vulnerable. But on the other hand, her fingers were still entwined with his, and he longed so much to finally trust someone. "Yes", he whispered. "Very much."_

Very much… It was all he had, all that was left to him… if anything was left to him at all.

Rolling over, the Phantom bit back a whimper. His limbs hurt, but he did not know why. Thinking was difficult, as it seemed that a cloud of fog had lowered itself over his awareness, slowing down every process of his mind.

He was lying on the hard ground, and the air around him felt hot. Yet there was a tiny sensation of coolness on his temples, a very tiny… Beads of sweat. They were running down from under his hair. And the way his shirt stuck to his body led him to the assumption that he was more or less drenched in sweat already.

Water. Cold water. There was cold water out in the corridors. He needed to get there. To get out. Out of here.

His limbs felt like lead, too heavy to move.

Someone was there with him. Inside his consciousness. Someone was tearing down the walls of his mind, one by one, and drilling into his memory, making it spill out for everyone to see… for everyone to see…

The mists were boiling up, enshrouding him, and he was drawn down, down, into forgetfulness, down to a well without a bottom…

The mists were boiling… boiling…

_The man's hand was tight around his upper arm, painfully tight. "Come with me, you little animal. You belong to me now." The rough stranger's voice was heavy with an ugly accent, and the smell about him was equally repulsive._

_Had his mother really just _sold_ him? Judging from the way she was always telling him how much he cost her, he guessed she really might. What had those strangers given her in return, he wondered, how much? How many loaves of bread would he buy her?_

_The man, a coarse fellow with untidy black hair, was dragging him along, and as he turned his head to get a last glimpse of the place where he had spent those past years, there were two more of those men, blocking his view. Night was falling swiftly, and the lengthening shadows and gathering gloom made them seem even taller somehow. They were laughing and jeering, but he did not quite understand the words they spoke. The world was spinning before his eyes, and his stomach clenched painfully. Sent to bed without dinner, he had cried himself to sleep as he did so often, but just after he had fallen asleep at last, curled up tightly under the thin rag serving him as a blanket in a corner of the room, he had been picked up again and shoved out of the door, into the hands of several dark-skinned, uncouth men, who spoke with a strange accent, and his mask, the piece of cloth he carefully kept in place not to be punished like always when he made his mother bear to look at him, was ripped off his face, and the men had examined him thoroughly, one of them holding his arms behind his back, and ignoring all his weeping and pleading, and his mother had struck him once again for not holding his tongue._

_From then on, he had listened in silence how they had haggled about him. One of the men had called him a half-starved little scarecrow, insisting that he would never pay as much for him as his mother asked for, and his mother had protested that such an abomination of a child was rare, his ugliness unique, and that moreover he knew how to read and write, and that at an extremely early age, and that she was selling him below the price he might fetch in a zoo. Sobbing to himself soundlessly, he had wondered what a zoo was, but had been afraid to ask. The adults had quarrelled, towering so high above him, and then one of the men had bent and shoved a dirty scrap of paper and a chewed-on pencil at him, demanding that he showed his skills and wrote his name for them. Still sobbing, he had taken up both pencil and paper, but only stared at them. He had no name._

_They had cursed and shouted at him and called his mother a liar before they had at last gotten him to scribble a few letters. His mother had protested to their accusation, and her voice still resounded in his ears now as he was dragged towards an unknown future. "He has no name. There was no name vile enough for him." Vile. What did it mean? It was something bad, something very bad. But what? He did not know, and he did not dare to ask._

_He stumbled over his own feet, too exhausted to use them properly anymore, wishing to just be shown a corner somewhere where he could curl up and sleep, but still he was hauled along mercilessly. Who were those men? His mother had never told him who they were. His mother had not addressed him at all since they had arrived._

_Once again he turned his head, but still there was nothing he could see of his former home._

_Ahead, a carriage waited, and what waited before the carriage made him completely forget his home and his mother: a horse, a real horse! A tall brown horse with a black mane. A rare feeling of joy filled his stomach, easing its demands for food. What did he care about his mother or anything else; there was a real horse waiting for him! His tiredness discarded, he pulled at the man leading him, pulled towards the horse, and the men's raucous laughter filled his ears. "Be mindful it won't eat you for supper!" one called to him, yet he hardly heard him. His arm was released, but he hardly realized it. Only five paces between the horse and him, only four, only three, two, one –_

_Bending down its large head, the horse whickered at him softly, huge dark eyes regarding him with a gentleness he had never seen before when somebody was looking at him. So tall it was, so gigantic, but he was not afraid, not even as it nuzzled its soft, wet nose against him. He laughed with glee, burying his small hands in its mane –_

_Rough hands grabbed him, and he was thrown onto the wagon and kicked into a corner, where he remained lying, whimpering softly, very softly, so nobody would kick him again for making such a noise. He wished he were alone in the world, alone with the horse, which was the friendliest person he had ever met, forever alone, alone…_

Alone…

A boot dug into his ribs, and he rolled onto his back with a groan, gazing up through a veil of grey into a face through which a clawed hand had been raked, leaving deep gauges in its wake. "How does it feel", a voice jeered from above the roiling clouds, "being crushed in the Master's hand?"

"Begone, Adhemar", another voice thundered, cold and strong as a glacier, tearing the clouds asunder only to reveal more veils of fog. Once again he found himself falling, falling and spinning, diving down into oceans of mist…

_"You foul little brat!__ Curse you, where have you gotten to?"_

_He was cowering in a corner, pressed against the rough, cold wall, his head on his knees so tightly that it hurt. Maybe if he didn't see her, if he refused to see her, she would be gone, together with the mask she made him wear, that thing suffocating him, denying him all taste of fresh air._

_Shivering, he wrapped his arms around himself tighter. Water was pearling down his naked skin, water from the bath._

_He would be beaten for spilling the bath water._

_"There you are!" A hand grabbed him and yanked him out of his corner, and when he struggled, a fist connected with the side of his head, making him howl with shock and pain. Once more the mask was pulled over his face forcefully. "You don't take that off, you monster, do you hear? Not even when bathing! You never take that off!"_

This time, he could not bite back the whimper anymore.


	28. IV Make your Choice

**IV. Make your Choice**

Slowly, very slowly, the mist before his eyes cleared, and the Phantom's consciousness returned. He was almost surprised that he did not find himself in the place which had been his first home, that place he only vaguely remembered, with his mother, a careless, cruel voice which he could hardly put a face to. Instead, he was in an underground hall lit by two blazing lines of braziers, and his hands were tied behind his back, as well as to something hard and smooth behind him. He could move his hands up and down, which led him to the assumption that it was a pole, and that the same cords tying his hands together were also slung around this pole in a loop before they had again been tied around his wrists.

His memories returned quickly, partly hazy, yet clear enough.

_Créon._ He would kill him, destroy him, extinct every hint of his very existence!

That was, if he ever found a way to get away from here, he thought bitterly. He had been far too reckless, coming down here to face the intruders unprepared and unarmed. In his foolish pride, he had believed that he was the only one, even though he had heard them call him their flesh and blood, even though he had seen evidence when dealing with Lionel that there were others out there, others with… singular gifts. Even though he had briefly struggled with their Master's mind, before he had killed Lionel.

His cloak and mask were gone, lying just out of his reach on the dusty floor. Just out of reach. They had done so on purpose, placing them so close that he could almost touch them and pull them towards him with his foot, but only almost. He knew they had. This was just another kind of torture they were subjecting him to, a very subtle one, taunting him with what he had once been.

The heat from the braziers seemed to have intensified, or maybe this was what Créon made him believe. He was not certain, could not be, not with his head throbbing as if with the direst of headaches. Yet there was no physical pain in his head. It was his mind that hurt him, that felt as if cracked open and shaken and finally ripped apart. And worst of all, Créon's touch was still on it, like a thin, oily layer of filth covering everything. He felt dirty, as dirty as he had never felt before.

Moreover, he felt stiff and sore, and he suspected that he had recently received quite a few bruises, yet he could not clearly recall how. What he dimly remembered, before that fog had covered his awareness, was that those giant brutes, Ferox and Atrox, had strode towards him, and then, as the oceans of mist were already enveloping him, that he had struggled against them, but that they had forced him down… And then the memories had returned, strong and clear.

A handful of swarthy men stood around him, watching him lazily, but several of them were fingering the knives they had tucked into their belts with an air of unease about them. Gypsies. Gypsy scum. How he longed to plunge their own knives into their throats and listen to their gurgling until they expired their miserable little souls!

"If you behave yourself, I might even let you. Those servants are worth nothing." Very suddenly Créon had appeared at his side, and the gypsies retreated, eyeing their Master with awe and fear, and as if they expected a sudden blow, yet still their gazes occasionally flickered towards the Phantom. But Créon ignored them completely. His hand shot out, grabbing the Phantom's chin, and he turned his head towards him forcefully, studying the scarred side of his face. Forgetting about his pride completely, the Phantom pressed his eyes shut firmly, so he would not have to look into the one staring at him from much too close a distance, that hateful patch of cold, empty sky. Still he thought to feel its stare graze his skin, scorch it, burn it, turn all of it into a mass of fire scars, just like those marring part of his face.

"Fire", Créon said gently. "The records tell us that fire is a sign of strength, but also of madness."

"Of course, you would know all about madness", the Phantom snarled, trying to jerk his chin free. He had expected Créon's fingers to feel cold, yet they didn't. They felt like anyone else's would – except that their grip was like that of clutches of steel.

"There is much hate in you. Much pain. The time will come when it will tear you apart, unless you learn how to contain it." Although it sounded as if he were speaking to the Phantom, the tone of his voice, that cold and distant, so very distant tone, suggested that he was in truth speaking to himself, voicing his thoughts aloud while studying a rare and very interesting specimen of animal.

"Are you aiming to increase it?"

Créon chuckled, a sound like bones gently ground to dust. "Too long you have been alone, young Erik. Too long you have taught yourself, instead of obeying a master's teachings and biddings. What you have built up must be broken, so you can be created anew."

"What do you want with me?" the Phantom demanded defiantly.

"You are a Lost One, young Erik, although you do not truly realize what this means. You are an angel cast out from Heaven."

The Phantom winced as he once again heard Christine's voice in his head, calling for her Angel, and Claire's… _A fallen angel, and far from Heaven…_ Was Créon mocking him once more, taunting him with his own painful memories?

"Tell me, boy", Créon asked softly, his breath touching the Phantom's blemished cheek, "have you never wondered about the gifts you have received at your birth, the gifts denied to many a man who has spent long years in their pursuit? Have you never asked yourself who you are? How many years have you lived down here, alone with your thoughts? All those hours you could have spent pondering your origin, and how many more minutes, and all the innumerable seconds of your awareness! You have received the gift of time, of a lifespan far beyond that of mortal men, and yet you never noticed? You are yet young, Erik, so I will not blame you. It only proves that you need guidance. But was that really all your ambition drove you to claim, a guardian angel for a foolish little girl you lost your romantic young heart to? You, who are so proud, and so hungry for power? It is indeed surprising, young Erik. Why would someone like you not claim to be God?"

Willing himself to open his eyes at last, with whatever consequences, the Phantom fixated Créon with a hard, flat stare. Normally, when he put such an effort into it, he would send everybody scattering while screaming at the top of their lungs, but now, it was just enough not to shudder at Créon's gaze. Just barely. "What do you mean?" His voice was not as firm as it should have been, but not overly trembling, either. "What is a Lost One?" And then, softer, and almost against his will, as if compelled to do so by that one single terrible eye, he added, "What am I?"

"So you accept the truth." The Phantom did not answer to this; he was not giving Créon too simple a triumph. Yet to Créon, an answer was not necessary. "This is the legend of the Lost Ones. After Lucifer's rebellion, those who had chosen to stand on his side were cast out of Heaven. While the leaders of his rebellion were banished to Hell, others among them were cast out into the world, to live and be reborn ceaselessly among the mortal kind, scattered among their inferiors, shorn of their memories and glory, sentenced to find their way in darkness over and over again, with greater gifts still than humanity possessed, yet marked for what they were, bearing the touch of evil upon their faces or bodies, where everyone could see, thus sentenced to be outcasts even among a lesser kind. Yet should one of them regain all his former powers and be strong enough to claim his place in Heaven once more, then he shall purge the world in fire and blood and at last knock at Heaven's gates at the head of the army of Hell, and the gates shall fall away before him when the time has come to challenge God."

Never before had the silence been heavier, although there still was the murmuring of voices throughout the hall and the merry crackling of flames in the braziers. This was madness, complete madness! The Phantom did not doubt for a moment that Créon deemed himself worthy of challenging God, and he refused to be part of a madman's followers, however powerful Créon might be.

Besides, he did not even believe in God, let alone in fallen angels.

For a moment, Adhemar's face turned up among the features of servants going about their chores, his stare baleful, and he whispered to Bertrand, the old man so hideously disfigured. Then they were gone, and almost immediately, Aeternus turned up instead, ponderously stroking his short-trimmed goatee with his black-gloved hand, his expression thoughtful. Did Aeternus know what Créon was telling him? Could he even hear? And did _he_ believe in those tales?

"This is another truth you will come to accept soon", Créon said coolly, at last releasing his chin, and automatically the Phantom turned his head away from him, staring into the fire of one of the braziers hard, the dancing flames reflecting his own disordered, uneasy mind. "And if not… When I will ask you, you will have to make your choice, whether you follow me or rather die. I am sure you will learn to cooperate until then, young Erik. And I strongly advise you to do so, in your very own interest." This last threat spoken, he turned and walked away, lazily waving the gypsy guards back to their posts, and soon was swallowed by the milling mass of his followers.

Already the Phantom felt his gaze become clouded again, and though he struggled to keep his consciousness, he felt how the mists of forgetfulness enshrouded him, once more taking him back into times long past. His last clear thought, before he drifted away into oblivion, was: _So did the Angel of Music choose darkness, a long time ago?_


	29. V Down once more

**V. Down once more**

"It is still further down."

Raoul groaned. "Do those cellars never end? It's no wonder he is mad; everybody would crack up eventually, living in a place like this!" Holding the torch up to scan his surroundings, he shuddered at the mere imagination of spending more time down here than absolutely necessary.

Christine sighed and stroked his shoulder soothingly, then turned to Meg, who was bringing up the rear. "I think we have arrived at another dead end. We had better return to the boat and try to find another way." The thought of having to use the blood-stained craft once more was not pleasant, but she did her best not to let it show.

Until now, she did considerably better than Raoul. "We will never find him, anyway", he complained. "And it's cold and wet down here. Can't we go up again? All I'm doing is getting my clothes dir– aargh!" His left foot had sunk deep into a water-filled hole in the uneven stone floor, and he struggled to get out again, splashing water everywhere and dropping the torch, which sizzled and hissed on the wet ground, until Meg darted past Christine to pick it up again. "I hate this place!" Raoul cried furiously, finally managing to yank his foot free, and he would have toppled over if Christine had not caught him just in time. "I hate it! And I hate that Phantom of yours!"

"Oh, do watch your step, and stop shouting!" Meg broke in impatiently. "How are we supposed to creep up even on somebody half deaf if you're making such a din?"

"Look at my boot!" Raoul mourned. "There's a huge cut in it, all through its side, and it was fairly new! And my foot's all soaked now!"

"We'll get you a new pair of boots, love", Christine comforted him, pulling him along towards the boat again. She knew that he had been rather attached to those boots, and she felt sorry for him, but now was the wrong time to lament the loss of pieces of clothing. "Are you hurt, by any chance?"

"Only a bit", Raoul answered bravely. "It twinges slightly, I reckon."

"Really? Darling, if you've hurt yourself seriously –"

"No, I'm fine", Raoul assured her, putting on a heroic grimace.

Meg, marching in front with the torch, turned her head to give Christine a reassuring nod. "It didn't look like he hurt himself", she said, winking. "He just wants to be pitied."

Raoul poked his tongue out at her. Rolling her eyes, Christine thought that at least he had regained his somewhat childish sense of humour.

Had this exchange taken place somewhere else and under different circumstances, she would probably have laughed, yet in her current situation, she felt as far from mirth as one could be. Part of her awareness was in pain, in a kind of pain she had never encountered before. She was not even sure if the sensation could be called that, as it was nothing physical. Still, it was a very disconcerting feeling, to say the very least. It seemed that part of her consciousness was being pressed through a sieve, bits of it carefully examined and poked at, jumbling her thoughts as well as her memory. Repeatedly she massaged her temples, yet this was of no help at all. The only way to stop it, and of this she was quite certain, was to find the Phantom and get him out of whatever trouble he had landed himself into.

God, this sounded so silly, as if she were looking for an ill-mannered child! But maybe his behaviour earlier on made her think like that, or the way Madame Giry had spoken about him. It seemed that the ballet instructor had a tendency to see just another ward in him, another boy to take under her wings, but one she was particularly fond of, like a younger brother – while on the other hand, she had suddenly fallen silent from time to time and sighed, then continued more slowly and thoughtfully, as if watching carefully what she was saying. Christine wondered what kind of relationship they had, the woman who had been almost like a mother to her and the man who had substituted her father in her childhood years, then a friend and brother, as well as a guardian, when she had grown older. They had almost been her family, they and Meg. When she had still been a little girl, it had seemed quite natural to her that Madame Giry would know the Angel of Music.

But now, when looking back on those times, it surprised her that she had not wondered about this connection during the later years. Not that she blamed herself for not noticing in the beginning, but later on, it should have made her think, miraculous as it had all been to her.

But on the other hand, who would suspect a man of entering and guarding one's dreams at night? It was not what a man usually did, not at all.

Still, she would have to be less trusting from now on.

Climbing back into the boat, Christine was careful not to slip on one of the still moist blood stains. It seemed that the Phantom's hunt had been successful, and this was what Meg said, but what had happened later on… It was a riddle. From what Madame Giry had told them, it was clear that there were several of these… Lost Ones, but how exactly they had managed to capture the Phantom, and what kind of treatment they were subjecting him to, remained a mystery, and one to worry about. Christine was convinced that it took a lot to capture the Phantom, and still more to make him feel like he was feeling at the moment – like _she_ was feeling, through him. How much stronger was the sensation for him?

"Where do we go?" Raoul asked, taking up the pole again.

Christine closed her eyes for a moment to concentrate on her awareness of the Phantom, to tell Raoul the exact direction, or as good a direction as possible at least – and then something happened that had never happened before. Suddenly images were flashing through her mind, gone again quickly, but clear enough for her to see. _A large underground hallway, dusty and dry, lit by two blazing lines of braziers, with shapes milling about all around them… drifting tendrils of fog… a man's silhouette, tall and threatening, seemingly clothed in black, and with a thin bandage covering one of his eyes… the reddish-yellow light of the fires dancing, dancing with the shadows… fog, creeping low, but climbing up… an open entrance lit by a lantern's eerie red sheen, spilling out over a pair of cherubs sculpted into the stone on either side of it… an eye, a cold blue eye, pale and empty as the sky on a clear October morning… the flickering fire of the braziers, dimmed by gathering mist… shapes, shapes milling about… light and shadow dancing and mingling… the mists were billowing up… an iron grasp around her mind, a drill boring into it, searching, searching… the empty eye… fog, oceans of fog… the fires were dying as the clouds were swallowing them… darkness was falling swiftly… and oh, that mind cruelly delving into her own…_

"Christine?" Raoul's voice dimly entered her consciousness, like through a wall of fog.

"Christine?" It was Meg. "Christine! Are you alright?" She was shaking her. "Christine!"

"Christine!" Raoul echoed, his voice thick with worry.

Opening her eyes again, all seemed to swim before her, sliding in and out of focus, making her dizzy. She blinked, trying to get used to her surroundings. "I'm fine", she muttered, waving Meg's hand away. "Just fine…"

"Christine, please", Raoul begged, so anguished that it was painful to hear. "What's wrong? Are you feeling ill? What happened just now?"

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Christine regarded each of them in turn, their faces both bearing expressions of strong concern, and she assumed that they mirrored her own. For she knew what it was she had seen. "They've taken him to some kind of hall, a huge underground room, but dry, so probably on one of the higher levels." She spoke hastily, already motioning Raoul to pole the boat onward. "There's a man… hurting him. A tall man with only one eye. The room is lit by fires, and it is well lit, but I have never been there, I don't recognize it. The only thing I can say is that it's very large apparently, huge really… yes, and on either side of the doorway, there is an angel carved into the stone –"

Meg interrupted her by leaping to her feet so quickly that the boat swayed dangerously. "Angels, you say?" she demanded breathlessly. "Two angels? And a large, dusty hall?"

"Yes, somewhere on the higher basement levels probably. Have you ever been there?" Christine concluded hopefully.

"Not on a higher level! It's down here! Are you sure about the angels? A pair of angels, their feet about on knee-height, and their heads on a level with your shoulder?"

"Yes, I'm sure – I mean, not how tall they are exactly, but you might just be right –"

"Raoul, turn the boat around!" Meg commanded. "Go back where we came from, and as fast as you can! I know how to get to this place."


	30. VI Long ago

**VI. Long ago**

_Huddling into a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees tightly, he tried to make no sound. Where was he? What kind of place had the girl ushered him into? The building had been huge, huge and impressive, and she had called it the Opera House, whatever this might mean, but the dark stone room he was sitting in looked more like a chapel. Not that he had seen many chapels yet, but he had been inside one a few times, and they had looked pretty similar, except that there usually were burning candles. In this room, there was a black metal rack for candles, but there were no lit candles at all, and the floor was dusty, as if nobody had been in here for a long time – which meant that he would not be found, but still he would have liked to see a candle-flame. He liked the warm, soft light of candles._

_Slowly his pounding heartbeat calmed and returned to normal. He was quite alone in the gentle gloom, and nobody would come looking for him here. Releasing his firm hold on his knees, he stretched out his legs, while rubbing his upper arms. Sitting crouched for too long was uncomfortable, although it was some protection against kicks, yet it was chilly in here, almost colder than outside. No, probably he was imagining things, it was certainly colder where he had just come from. Yet all the same, he felt cold._

_And his hands felt rough on his upper arms. Lowering them and turning his palms upwards, he squinted at them critically. They were dirty, of course, as usual, but there was something else about them too, this time: All over his palms, sticking to his skin, in places stinging it, were small, rough fibres, coming from a rough rope… the rope he had just killed a man with._

_Starting to brush them off, he rested the back of his head against the wall, closing his eyes. He had killed him. He had killed him at last. Feeling his limbs tremble with excitement, he relived those seconds in his mind, those glorious seconds when he had at last had his revenge. It all had been over in a moment, and he had hardly thought while doing it, just thrown the noose around his loathed owner's neck and yanked the rope tight, and immediately the massive body had gone limp, and the head had fallen forward heavily, with a sound oddly like a branch snapping. He must have broken the man's neck. Strange, it had seemed so simple, and it all had been over so quickly. That foul gypsy had died so easily._

_And then, when he had let the noose glide from his hands, the sudden fear clenching his stomach, the panic.__ What now? What would they do to him now? And only then had he seen the girl, a slender, fair-haired girl, a few years older than he was probably, and their eyes had met… and she had come and opened his cage for him, without disgust, without fear, something written on her features he had never seen on any human looking upon him before. What had it been? Sympathy? Pity? It had made the painful knot in his stomach unclench, and he had followed her trustingly as she had taken his hand to lead him away, towards freedom._

_She had actually taken his hand._

_He shivered again, hugging himself tightly. His only piece of clothing, apart from the mask, of course, that hateful sack pulled over his head, was a ragged pair of trousers. If the girl came back, he might ask her for a spare shirt… No, he couldn't; she had already done enough for him, more than enough. He couldn't ask anything more of her. On the contrary, he owed her his freedom, and probably his life. He would have to find a way to repay her._

_There were footsteps coming from outside, down the stairs leading further into the building! At once he was on his feet, picking up his small monkey doll and hugging it to his chest. Apart from his sparse clothing, this little monkey was his only possession, and he would not part with it. His eyes were darting from side to side, searching for a way of escape. No, there was no hiding place; the only way open to him was to flee back outside… But he was reluctant to do so. He wanted to stay. This place was a strange place, and in a way an eerie place, but he wanted to stay where he was. The gentle darkness of this chapel made him feel at home._

_"Are you there?" a whisper came from outside, and then the girl slipped into the room, making relief flood him. "It's alright, it's just me."_

_Letting his arms sink to his sides, he took a few reluctant steps towards her, the flagstones smooth and cool under his bare feet, then stopped. He did not want to scare her. "Thank you", he murmured huskily, his voice trembling, tears suddenly burning in his eyes. "Thank you for everything. How can I ever repay you?"_

_"There is no need", the girl answered earnestly, her grey eyes once again meeting his, making him feel warm inside. "If I had left you with those monsters, I could not have lived with myself."_

_Those monsters.__ She had called the gypsies monsters. Was not _he_ the one who was the monster? He had always been the one._

_The girl regarded him hesitantly, probably wondering why he hid behind that mask. "I'm Claire", she said at last. "And what is your name?"_

_He shrugged and shook his head. "I don't have a name, and I can't remember ever having one. Not a real name, I mean." But that lack of a name had never mattered to the gypsies, they had made up plenty for him._

_"How old are you?"_

_He cast his gaze down to his dirty feet. "I don't know."_

_"And what do you do? I mean, normally?"_

_"What…" He did not quite understand. "What do you mean?"_

_"I'm in the ballet, for example. A dancer", she added, guessing his ignorance. "And you?"_

_"I'm an exhibit." His tone was so harsh and bitter that the girl took a step backwards. Had he scared her? "I've never done anything else", he continued, trying to make his voice softer. "Except the occasional work for them."_

_"I'm sorry."_

_"It's not your fault."_

_The girl smiled, and he decided that he truly would not leave. This girl had actually smiled at him. Smiled at him! Nobody would ever do that._

_"Why do you wear this… thing?" she asked, pointing to his mask._

_"Because I'm a monster."__ His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears._

_"I don't believe that."_

_"But I am", he insisted. "I'm the ugliest creature alive."_

_"Is this what the gypsies said?" she asked gently._

_"Yes. Pretty much."_

_"I don't believe them", she said stubbornly. "Will you not take it off?"_

_He shook his head violently. No, never! She would scream and run from him, or else send him away! "It's better if I don't", he whispered._

_"You can trust me", she said gently. "Don't be afraid. There is no need to hide from me."_

You can trust me._ Could he believe his ears? No, this was just a dream, just one of those desperate, feverish dreams. There was nobody he could trust, nobody in the world._

_"No-one should be forced to hide his face like this", she continued, approaching him. He backed away until he stood pressed against the wall, but she kept coming. "Why should I take a gypsy's word as for what you look like?" And then she was very close, only at an arm's length from him. "Show me", she said quietly._

_If he could have dug a hole through the wall with his shoulder blades, he would surely have done so, but he was trapped, and she was already reaching out to pull his mask away. Watching her hand coming closer, frozen with dread, he made a soft, whimpering sound in his throat, his fist tight around the monkey. "Quiet", she whispered soothingly. "Quiet…" He wanted to run, to fight, but he stood transfixed, unable to move. Already his mask was slipping away, cool air touching his skin… He pressed his eyes shut as hard as he could, not wanting to see the grimace of dread upon her face. Clenching his teeth, he waited for her to scream, to hit him, to shout at him, to run away, just to do anything. Why was she so silent?_

_And then he felt a finger on his marred cheek, gently tracing his scars. "Poor boy", she said softly. "This must have hurt."_

_"I don't remember", he murmured. Should he dare to open his eyes?_

_"How did it happen?"_

_"I don't know. I must have been very small." There was so much he did not know, so much for which he had no answer._

_"They were lying", the girl said firmly, her palm now resting on his cheek. "You are not a monster. You're only scarred. Badly scarred, maybe. But never a monster. Only to have had a terrible accident in your early childhood does not make you a son of the devil."_

_Opening his eyes slowly, he stared at her, unbelieving. She was not repulsed. She was not afraid. She did not think he was a monster._

_"Why did they call you the Devil's Child?" There was anger in her voice, but not at him. Not at him. "They had no right to do so! Absolutely no right! What have you ever done to them? _They're_ the monsters, but not you!"_

_He cleared his throat hesitantly. To tell her about this was unwise, yet he longed so much to trust someone at last, and to be able to speak about it, that he could not stop himself. "Sometimes when I look at people… when I look them in the eyes, I mean… things happen."_

_Lowering her hand, she frowned again. "Things? What things?"_

_"I don't know. Just… strange things. They start to feel all funny. Sometimes they act like… like they're in a daze, or something. I really don't understand. It's not my fault. But they think I do something… with my eyes."_

_"That's just what they say", the girl said, firmly, yet warmly. "Maybe they had a bad conscience about the way they treated you, and I assume they are superstitious. Don't believe all the things they told you about yourself."_

_He nodded gratefully, but his mouth was dry. Maybe the gypsies _were_ superstitious, but all the same, there _was_ something he could do by looking at them. He had no idea what it was, and it didn't work every time, but there was… something. He knew there was._

_She was still looking at him, pity in her eyes. She had a pretty face, he noticed, smooth and even. With his scarred features, he felt ashamed to stand in front of her. "Can I have my mask back?" he muttered, staring at his feet hard. "It's just… I feel better when I'm wearing it." And at the same time, he wished he would never have to wear it again._

_She handed it over without protest, and he quickly covered his face once more. "Thank you", he said again. "For all you've done."_

_"I'll show you the way to the cellars now", she suggested. "You can hide there a few hours, until nightfall. Then, when everybody is asleep, I'll come for you and take you upstairs, shall I? I'm afraid I can't truly accommodate you, but at least I've got a place on the rug to offer, and a spare blanket. And tomorrow we'll see what we can do about you. You'll need something proper to wear, and if you want to stay, we'll have to find some shelter for you, somewhere down in the cellars, probably. The lowest level is partially flooded, and nobody ever goes there. It would make a perfect hideout. But we'll think about that later on, shall we?" Smiling, she held out a hand for him. "Come with me."_

_Taking it, he followed her trustingly, once again muttering his thanks._

He was led into the mist, into the rolling, boiling clouds of mist… and then he opened his eyes. Again he was lying on the ground, his shirt soaked with his own sweat, and again Créon was standing over him, his one bright, empty eye freezing him to a statue, holding him enthralled. And then the oceans of mist closed again as he fell, fell back in time, back through long, long years…

_"Stop picking your nose", Claire said. "It makes me nervous."_

_He grinned at her broadly. "Be glad I'm not picking yours", he declared._

_She sighed and rolled her eyes at him, then sat down across from him, her eyes immediately drawn to what he had spread out on the table between them, and widening as she realized what it was. "That's… that's… how did you get it?"_

_"Nicked it after yesterday's rehearsal", he answered smugly. No need to boast; she knew just as well as he how difficult that was. "Just writing it all down by listening and memorizing was getting boring. All the stuff struck out, and the passages left blank and stuff – oh, you can probably imagine. This way, it's really easy. I just copy out the missing passages, and the score will be back in the pit by tomorrow morning, and no harm done."_

_"Are you quite sure?" Claire asked doubtfully. "This sounds risky to me. What if anyone _did_ notice it went missing overnight?"_

_He shrugged. "Why bother? After all, this place is haunted, isn't it?"_

_"Yes, and people are pretty superstitious, but you really shouldn't haunt it so obviously. What do you need the score for, anyway?"_

_"I told you", he replied patiently. "I'm making a copy for myself, and doing it by listening to rehearsals is much more complicated." Yes indeed, especially when he was hiding in one of the boxes on the grand tier while the auditorium was not lit – after all, he needed a bit of lighting when he wanted to write, yet the sheen of even one single candle might be easily seen, and he had not yet managed to acquire a shuttered lantern. So finally he had ended up with listening and memorizing and then jutting down what he remembered when he returned to his deepest cellars._

_Claire still looked doubtful, but she did not press the matter any further, and he was glad she didn't. Instead, she picked up one of the sheets covered in black ink. "So this is what you've copied out?"_

_"No, this is what I wrote down from my memory. See all the blotches? I was in a bit of a hurry, you see, because I feared I might forget something if I took a lot of time with it." He shoved another page over at her. "That one's copied. Much cleaner, isn't it?"_

_Frowning, Claire took it from him, holding the two pages up into the candlelight next to each other and examining them thoroughly. The frown did not leave her face. At last, she handed the pages back. "You don't mean to say", she asked incredulously, "that you came down here, after listening to a rehearsal, with the entire score for that scene stuck in your mind, and just wrote it down? The part of every singer, and every instrument?"_

_"Why, of course! What else do you expect? That I climbed into the pit to ask the musicians if they would kindly let me get a glimpse of what they're playing?"_

_"The part of _every instrument_?"_

_"Oh well, I had a few notes wrong in the viola", he admitted. "And I made a bit of a blunder with the second oboe. But the whole rest was correct."_

_"I can't believe it", Claire stated flatly._

_"Oh, come on! It's not as if I've heard it only that one time. That's half into the second week they're working on it with full orchestra."_

_"Yes, and I've heard from one of the second violinists that he hardly knows his part yet."_

_"That would be because he's an old sloth. But you should hear part of the first violinists during the overture. They're just not fast enough yet."_

_"How do you know?" Claire demanded. "It's not as if you could play the violin!"_

_"Of course I can!" he protested._

_"You can't!"_

_"I can!"_

_"You never learned it!"_

_"I taught myself!"_

_"Nobody can teach himself to play the violin!"_

_"But I can!"_

_"You're lying!"_

_"I'm not!" he retorted hotly. Hadn't he taught himself to read notes before her very eyes, the first time he had watched a rehearsal, hidden away in a box and with only a score before him for orientation? After a few minutes, he had already been singing along softly, and amusing himself by watching Claire's jaw slowly descend as far as it would go._

_Claire stuck out her tongue at him, then assumed an annoying little sing-song voice. "Liar! Liar! Back of your pants on fire!"_

_He wanted to protest, or better yet, to stuff something into her mouth, but this was just too silly. Unable to stifle the mirth suddenly welling up in him, he snorted with laughter. "Made that up yourself?"_

_Claire giggled. "No, I actually learned it from my youngest ballet colleagues. One of the little boys was calling it after another."_

_He smirked at her. "Seems you're acting your age, then, just as usual."_

_"You watch your tongue, or another pillow battle is in order."_

_"Sounds good", he remarked. Their last pillow battle, only a week ago, had been thoroughly enjoyable, and they had ended up rolling around on the floor laughing._

_"I think it's really in order, then. But let us eat something first." She nodded to the basket she had brought along._

_"Not a good idea", he answered, grinning. "I always get lazy after being fed. How do you expect me to wield a pillow after stuffing myself with whatever delicious things you've brought?"_

_"You ought to eat less, then."_

_"Why? I'm not in the ballet."_

_Claire giggled. "Good point. But that doesn't mean I'll starve, only because I'm in the ballet."_

_"But how do you expect to ever be promoted to prima ballerina, when you keep stuffing your face with sausages and chocolates?" He felt his grin broaden; teasing Claire could be so much fun. "You might even lose your post as her substitute if you go on like that."_

_At once Claire looked crestfallen. "Do you really think I'm too fat?" she asked worriedly._

_"No, no, I'm just kidding", he assured her hastily. "You're just perfect. You're pretty, and very graceful. And even slimmer than lots of others." And he knew that for certain, he truly did, although he had better not tell Claire that he had, a few years ago, found a way of watching one of the ballet girls' washing rooms unobserved, and he had done so plenty of times. Whenever Claire was there, he decently shut his eyes and retreated, because it just wouldn't feel right to spy on his friend, but he sometimes enjoyed watching the whole rest of them. Before he had discovered the handy crannies in the wall, he had never seen a naked woman – except a few nude statues, which were barely enough to quench the first curiosity – and he had found the view very… educational. Of course this wasn't enough to satisfy the urges he occasionally felt, but it was the best he could get._

_The best someone like him would ever get. No woman in her right mind would ever even think of touching someone as ugly as he was, let alone fall in love with him. Claire was the only person he had ever met who liked him at all, except a few animals, but even Claire would probably run away in disgust if he tried anything with her. Innocently forward as she was, she had given him a few hugs already, but she would never go beyond that. Never. Nobody would._

_Reaching out across the table, Claire patted his hand. "Why so gloomy suddenly?"_

_"I was just thinking."_

_"Of course.__ Your Flying Dutchman again?"_

_"My _Flying Dutchman_ Wagner's _Flying Dutchman_, I'm afraid."_

_She smiled, and he wondered if she had even noticed that he had avoided her question. "Oh yes. Imagine it really was yours."_

_"I doubt I could ever write anything that magnificent."_

_"Maybe you should try", she suggested. That little tune you wrote for me was very pretty."_

_"Yes, but that was just a tune. Whereas we're talking of an opera here. And not just some Auber or Meyerbeer, mind you."_

_"Something like Gounod, then?"_

_"Much better", he assured her. "I've never heard anything of the like."_

_"Now how about Mozart?"__ Claire offered. "Or Beethoven? They must be a match for this German newcomer, aren't they?"_

_"They're different", he explained. "Another style. I assume you know what I mean; you've heard it for yourself. I mean, just look at it. Look at its form. Mozart sticks with the form, always. And Beethoven doesn't move too far away from it. But Wagner… he doesn't. He simply does as he pleases."_

_"He sounds a lot different", Claire admitted. "You're right, he certainly does. He sounds… wild."_

_"Do you by any chance mean _passionate_?"_

_"Yes, thanks." Claire smiled. "You're a good one with words."_

_"Thanks in turn."_

_"Any part you're aspiring for yet?" she teased him. "Have you yet tried out the Dutchman?"_

_He gave her a little grin. There was nothing wrong with her knowing about the secret dream he harboured. "Actually I have, but the trouble is… he's a baritone."_

_"Oh, I see. But there _is_ a tenor, isn't there? During that rehearsal yesterday, we had one on stage, although he didn't get to do much."_

_He laughed at that. "Yes, of course there is. There are two, to be exact", he explained. "But the Helmsman is a small part really, only in the first act and a little bit in the third. He doesn't get much in the first act, too, but he has that song, you know. Rather catchy." He hummed a bit of the melody, and Claire nodded, recognizing it. "And he is in the chorus for the whole of the third act, I presume. Wouldn't make sense if he wasn't; he's supposed to stick with his sailors."_

_"Now how about the other?__ That hunter? We were working on the beginning of the second act, and he was waiting for his cue, so I guess he must be in the second act. At least I know for certain that he's in the third." She sighed. "But I always have to go down for ballet practise while you can stay and listen to the whole rest of it. It's a bit unfair. Anyway, what was his name again? It was a nice name, but I forgot."_

_"You keep forgetting things", he teased her._

_"Yes, especially my text, when I make it into the chorus. Will you tell me now?"_

_"Alright.__ The name you're looking for is Erik, and I think I could sing the part."_

_Smiling, Claire eyed him up and down, at least as far as that was possible with the table still between them. "Oh yes, thank you. Now I remember. And you would make a fine hunter, I think. I can just picture you with a bow over your shoulder." She giggled. "A very suitable Erik. And the name would suit you, too."_

_"Really?"__ He laughed. "Then I guess I'll be stuck with it now. When you tell me something suits me, I always end up being stuck with it."_

_"You're not complaining, I hope?" Claire playfully raised a threatening finger. "And anyway, _you_ haven't come up with a name for yourself yet."_

_"I have", he objected. "I'm the Opera Ghost."_

_"A proper name, I mean."_

_"That's proper enough for my taste."_

_"But not for mine", she said firmly. "Now be a good boy and pass me that lunch basket… Erik."_

Erik… He had not heard that name in a long time. As the mists momentarily cleared, he wondered for how long exactly, but soon they were closing in again. He fought them as good as he could, like one would fight sleep overwhelming him, but they were stronger. They wrapped him up and encompassed him, dulling all sounds around him, extinguishing the fires. There was no point in fighting. Already he was drifting off again, back into his own past. He struggled to shut that strange hand out of his mind, to keep his memories to himself, yet it was useless. The hand was just too strong. All he could do was squirm in its grasp, but he could not get it to loosen its grip. And against those billowing clouds of fog, all resistance was in vain.

He was floating… falling… drifting on a small boat on the oceans of time… enshrouded by the mists of time… enshrouded…

_He checked his own reflection in the mirror before he settled down in the manager's chair, one booted foot on the table, the other against its edge, and started flicking through the newspaper lying there. Very well. He was ready._

_The manager, however, was not. Entering with his usual hasty, nervous strides, the tall, lean man closed the door behind him, then once again turned to face the room – and jumped._

_"Ah, Monsieur Lefevre", he said lazily, as if acknowledging the manager's presence only then. "How fortunate I meet you here, as there are some important matters to discuss."_

_"The… the… the Ghost!"__ Lefevre gasped. "How did you come in here? I locked the door. I'm sure I locked the door."_

_He raised his uncovered eyebrow at him over the top of the newspaper. "Do you really think I use doors?"_

_Lefevre__ swallowed. "But you look… solid", he managed._

_"I can", the Phantom answered lightly, "if I choose to."_

_"And you…" The manager took a deep breath, then blurted out. "I saw you at the lavatory."_

_The Phantom nodded to himself. Exactly what he had expected. This was the reason why he had come here in person, instead of just leaving a letter on the desk for the man to find. After encountering him at the gentlemen's room a few days ago, the man might easily start to suspect something. Not that he would have worried about Lefevre knowing about his presence alone there – after all, every part of the Opera House could be haunted – but the problem was that he had been quite obviously doing up his buttons when Lefevre had entered, and this hinted at a rather human activity he had been busy with a moment earlier. Not what one would expect of a ghost. Definitely not. And therefore, Lefevre needed a little reminder of who he was. "And what, precisely, does this reveal about me?" he asked scornfully. He had to be careful not to seem to be covering up for himself, but he could not appear too untouched by it all, either, or else Lefevre would suspect that he was only pretending. "I readily admit that even I have to take the human form with its disadvantages, along with the advantages." He threw the newspaper down onto the desk, beside his boot heel. "But I have not come for a friendly chat about what form to choose. Let's get to business, Monsieur Lefevre."_

_As he had intended, the pause made the manager nervous. "What are your interests here?" he asked breathlessly, then hurriedly added, "If I may ask."_

_Slowly and elegantly, the Phantom rose to his feet and approached him, in a kind of lazy saunter that seemed to have a very intimidating effect on people. Lefevre backed away until he positively shrunk into the wall, but the Phantom stopped only when his partially masked face was a mere span from the manager's. "Have you ever heard that there are men who were in life so evil that Hell spat them back out?" he asked softly. "There is nothing I have to fear, and I would not hesitate to send you there to carry my fondest regards, especially when my orders are not obeyed. And do not bore me with stupid questions, or you may find yourself on your way downwards even sooner than expected." His eyes held Lefevre's gaze, and he could feel the man's fear. "You can't be too eager to get there soon, now can you?" he continued gently, yet without allowing his expression to soften. "Not with the kind of life you lead. Drinking, gambling, pretty women… Yes, I know all about you", he said as Lefevre's eyes widened with dread. "You expect you still have some time until your afterlife begins, do you? Time to repent, to seek absolution for your sins… But accidents can always happen, Monsieur Lefevre. Anywhere, anytime." He let his lips shift into a cruel smile. "What will you do when you suddenly have to face your judge? What will you say? For whose aid will you plead, when the day comes?"_

_Lefevre__ was trembling, and it seemed that only the wall at his back prevented him from keeling over. The Phantom regarded him scornfully. This one was much too easy to manipulate. "And now, Monsieur Lefevre", he said pleasantly, "we will discuss the matter of my salary."_

The fog returned and thinned, while some of the last words spoken still swirled through his mind, dancing in the clouds. When the day comes… what will you say… for whose aid will you plead… plead… plead… when the day comes… Unbidden, they translated themselves into Latin in his head, into the words of the requiem mass: _Quid sum miser tunc dicturus… quem patronum rogaturus…_

The mists were drifting, boiling, the current carrying him upwards, towards a sky that was cold and empty. Around him, everything was spinning, turning; he was resting beneath an axis which was a patch of empty sky… empty sky…

Créon was standing above him, holding his gaze. How could one single eye hold two? He did not know. And, oh, what a terrible eye…

The voice filled his consciousness with ice as he plunged back into the wide field of mist, grasping around him for a hold uselessly. "_Show me your heart…_"

And then there was pain, so much pain, as if his heart were ripped from his chest. He wanted to scream, but swallowed fog, fog which slid down his throat like ice, rendering him mute and helpless. Something struck him, swift and hard, and at once everything was revolving around a point of light, a point of light at the bottom of a well… he was falling… falling… closer… the point of light was taking shape… closer… the mists were receding… ever closer… the light was there… the light…

_The light of a single candle flickered in the darkness, casting odd shadows onto the face of a small, thin girl, her little face, framed by dark curls, strangely pale in the dim light. Her small hands folded and on her knees in the dust, she was praying fervently, tears drawing glittering lines down her cheeks. "You promised you would send him to me. Please, tell him to come." Even her voice had something small about it, like a scared little bird's._

_Standing in the entrance to the chapel and watching her half from the side unobserved, leaning against the doorframe with one shoulder, he wondered where he had seen this child before. She belonged to the ballet school, no doubt. All the little children here belonged to the ballet school – with a few exceptions, but those were very few. Usually he paid them no attention at all, except Claire's little girl maybe, little Meg, who he kept an eye on sometimes, yet without letting her see him, but this one… He knew this one. He was sure he did._

_"You promised me."_

_But who the hell was she? Not that he really cared, but… Oh, damn, he really had better things to do than to wonder about some snivelling little snotrag, even if that one came down to the chapel to pray, something no-one else did._

_"I know you can hear me now."_

_Oh, how very _moving_. Thrusting his thumbs behind his belt, he wrinkled his nose at so much naivety. He might just give the little puppet a good scare and be on his way, and maybe, if it still bothered him later on, he could ask Claire who the girl was._

_Claire. Of course. Why hadn't it occurred to him earlier? Claire had mentioned a little orphan girl she was to pick up in the countryside, and this morning she had returned, and she had said… Yes, of course. Now he remembered._

_He might still give her a scare. Just a slight one._

_Still kneeling before the metal rack with the one single candle on it, the girl gave a little sob._

_Claire had mentioned that she had lost her father. Poor thing. He knew what it was like, being all alone in the world. Hadn't he once crouched in a corner in this very room, alone and frightened, before Claire had come for him?_

_"Please, please, send me the Angel of Music."_

_Happy child, still believing in angels.__ He doubted that he had ever done so. Now what was her name again? Claire had certainly used it a few times when telling him about the whole thing… Oh yes, he remembered. "Christine…", he called gently, making his voice come from everywhere and nowhere, just out of the air above her head._

_Her small form stiffened as she listened. Wasn't she going to at least squeal? "Are you the Angel of Music?"_

What_? Not what he had intended! "What makes you think so?" He was smiling wickedly to himself; this girl expected to meet an angel, but he would introduce her to the Opera Ghost!_

_"Because my father promised to send him to me."__ Hell consume itself, why wasn't she afraid of a voice coming from nowhere? "He told me all about him. He lives behind the moon, he said, and he is the most beautiful of them all, so beautiful that none can endure to look upon his face."_

_Despite himself, he almost laughed out loud. Yes indeed, he was so beautiful that she would scream when he showed his face! What complete nonsense! He felt inclined to kick her for saying something so stupid to him._

_"Are you the Angel of Music?" she insisted._

_"Maybe I am." He did not know why he said it. Was it just that he wanted to tease the silly little thing, or did he feel sorry for her, so alone in the darkness?_

_There was a moment's silence, in which the girl looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully, as if she could see him this way, or hear his voice better. "Are you still there?" she finally asked._

_"Yes."_

_"Don't go", she pleaded softly._

_"I won't." Why would she not look around the room to find the source of the disembodied voice speaking to her? She was far too trusting._

_"Has my father sent you?"_

_"I came of my own accord."_

_"Why?" she breathed._

_"Because I saw you were alone."_

_"Will you come again for me?"_

_"If you want me to."__ It was cruel, playing with her like that. She was just a child; she would trust him blindly._

_"Are you somewhere close?" she asked wonderingly._

_He smiled to himself in the shadows. "Closer than you think."_

_It seemed to be what she wanted to hear, for her little face at once lit up with joy. So small she was, so fragile, ready to crumble at the first wind, yet the happiness she displayed would not be shattered. She truly believed in her Angel, he thought… even if her Angel did not._

_"My father said you would guide my steps."_

_"I can certainly do that." He could, yes. But he did not exactly intend to. What should he burden himself with a child for?_

_"And sing to me in my sleep at night."_

_"If you are a good girl."__ What was he doing there? Surely he would not go and sing a silly little child lullabies?_

_"I will be", she promised eagerly. "Angel?"_

_"Yes?" Nobody had ever called him that. Surely she could not believe that… Well, of course she could. He had practically told her that he was an angel, and she was not going to question it._

_She would do his bidding, it occurred to him. She would be his creature. He had her in his hand._

_"What is your voice like? I mean, when you sing?"_

_He wanted to tell her that it depended on his mood, but surely an angel would not be afflicted by changing moods. "What do you expect it to be like?" he asked back instead._

_"I think you're a tenor", the little girl said._

_Now this was getting amusing. "Really? What makes you think so?"_

_"Because… I don't know. I just think you are."_

_"I see." Just as she thought that he was beautiful – only that this time she was right._

_"Are you?"_

_"Yes." When he was younger, he had longed to have a voice deep as from the grave, but he had found that he was quite content with what he had. At least in this area. And he could still sound as if speaking from the grave, if he wanted to._

_But not for this girl.__ He would not scare her with such tricks. Not when she trusted him blindly. He might make her his tool and put her to a use in some way, yet she would have his protection for her services, even before she started to be useful. She would have her Angel._

_It seemed that he had a soft spot for little children after all. Especially if they were as sad and lonely as he had once been._

_Maybe this innocent child would even be able to cheer him up, to ease his solitude a little bit._

_He would see about this. "I will come for you tonight", he said, ready to retreat into the shadows._

_"Are you going already?" She sounded disappointed._

_"I have business to attend to." Which consisted of raiding the cantina mainly, but there were some things he better kept to himself._

_"And you promise you will come back?"_

_For a moment he was tempted to step into the room behind her and let her see him, but he quickly decided against it. How was she to believe any longer that he was an angel if she saw his masked face?_

_Beautiful beyond enduring…_

_"I promise", he answered. "When you're asleep." There was a way of entering dreams, he had discovered, when sitting at the edge of Claire's bed while she was asleep one night. And there was a way of changing them. That night after her husband had died, when she had fallen asleep in his arms, he had suddenly realized that he could manipulate her dreams to a certain extent. Yet he had practised this skill no further until now. Maybe the time had come when he would._

_"Angel?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Will you come again after tonight?"_

_"If you are a good girl", he repeated, then added, "If you do as I tell you."_

_"If I'm a very good girl", she asked hopefully, "will you teach me to sing like an angel?"_

_"Maybe.__ If you can be taught."_

_"I will do my best", she promised._

_"Good." He turned to go, smiling to himself. "I will be there tonight, Christine."_

Christine… Christine… Caught in the mists of time, and with no chance of escape, he still called her name, over and over again.

Christine… Christine… Christine…


	31. VII Rich Desire

**VII. Rich Desire**

When he woke again from his oblivion, he was not surprised to find himself tied to the pole once more. Again there were gypsies watching him, but he ignored them. The pain in his head, that strange pain which only hurt in his mind, was stronger than before. There was no hiding now. Everything lay bare. Créon knew everything.

Oh, Christine… The only thing he wished for was to crawl to her and nuzzle his face into her hair and hide, hide from all the world.

He realized there were tears running down his cheeks, and he bit his lips to make them stop, hacked his teeth into his own flesh until he tasted blood, but still the tears kept coming. So this was what defeat felt like, true, utter defeat. He had thought to know the feeling, but only now he understood its true extent. He had lost, and Créon had won, Créon with his madness and his filthy lies. He was in Créon's hands now, at the Master's disposal. And however hard he struggled, he would be bent to that madman's will.

If only Christine were safe! He could still feel her, somewhere out there, and he eagerly drank in what little he was aware of, drawing comfort from it, though the fear to lose her when she stayed near was much greater. What if that Adhemar managed to put his dirty hands on her? What if Créon decided to torment her in order to give him pain?

Soft footsteps made him raise his head, and he found that Aeternus had entered his blurred vision quietly, his pair of fair-haired retainers waiting a little way off. At a wave of his gloved hand, the gypsies shrunk away and scattered, mingling with the rest of the servants around the braziers. Most of them were sitting in lines now, consuming a simple meal, paying their prisoner no notice – or rather, avoiding to look at him.

"Listen", Aeternus whispered urgently, "if you want to do that girl of yours a service, then you must submit. Now. It's your only choice. You're stronger than the Master expected, but you won't last against him. Nobody does, not in the first confrontation. So think of your girl and do what he wants you to. It's better for you and her, believe me."

Was this another trick of Créon's, or rather Aeternus's independence, as Créon had put it? "What does he want with me?" he asked hoarsely, hoping to at last receive an answer.

"The Master's plan are not for us to know", Aeternus replied, clearly hesitantly, "but he believes that he needs you for… something. He needs your strength, and you are even stronger than he at first thought. And he is even more eager to control you. You _must _submit."

Did he really not know, or did he just refuse to tell him? The Phantom could not answer this question. But if Aeternus truly had no idea what Créon wanted, what made him follow this madman? "What's in it for you?" he asked. "Why do you do this?"

Aeternus smiled. "There is a saying, lad: _Better stand_ _beside the devil on his day of victory than be in his way._ You would do well to remember that."

"Aeternus?" The voice was a female one, soft and gentle and clear as chimes. "Kindly leave him to me now."

Immediately Aeternus bowed his head. "As my Lady commands."

Again footsteps coming to him. He blinked at the newcomer hard, trying to clear his eyesight. Aeternus was gone from his side, leaving two women with him instead. One he recognized as the red-headed Fifi, whereas the other –

A hand reached out and gently wiped moisture and dirt from his unblemished cheek, then repeated the same on the other side, without hesitation. "Now, now", she crooned. "We do not want to spoil your loveliness." Her hand cupped his chin as she regarded him, and he regarded her in turn.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever met – apart from Christine, of course, he thought automatically. Tall for a woman, she was slender and graceful and at the same time generously built. Her dark eyes were a pair of smouldering coals in her bronze-skinned face, under thin, elegant eyebrows that were now slightly raised, observing him with a small smile. Clothed she was in a dress of black silk which clung to her body, revealing more than it seemed to be revealing at first glance. Her long dark hair hung about her shoulders in glossy waves. There was only one thing marring her beauty: While on the left side the skin of her neck was smooth, it was rough and lined and somewhat darker on the right, as if often exposed to sea and wind. He did not know how this comparison came to him, yet it seemed to fit.

"So, my pretty one", she said gently, "it is time to discuss your future. Or at least, some aspects of it."

"Who are you?" he demanded, after drawing a ragged breath, or at least he tried to make it sound like a demand, but what came out was more the tone of a defiant child. Curse her, but she was stunning!

"I am known as Niobe", she answered, her fingertips caressing him under the chin.

"Niobe", he repeated. "Like the woman challenging a goddess in her mad pride?" Among other things, Claire had brought him a book on Greek mythology once, a linen-bound volume with many fascinating stories in it. It had been during the summer break, and he had found himself a sunny place on the rooftop, hidden behind a statue, to read. "She paid dearly for her folly."

"We all do, in the end." She was very close to him now. Much too close. He could feel her breath against his throat, and her presence filled him with the same prickling sensation he normally got when Christine touched him. "And currently, it is _your_ turn." Her laughter was clear as a spring, yet as a cold spring. "However, since you have caught my eye, submission might be a very enjoyable game to play for you, if you are a good boy." She briefly sniffed the side of his neck, drawing in his scent, and he seriously doubted that it was so pleasant currently, with all the dust, dirt and sweat covering him. He caught himself wishing that she would sniff him after he was freshly bathed and shaved. "Créon – the Master – might even leave you to me completely once night has fallen. How would you like that, duckling?"

She had called Créon with his name. Until now, she was the only one to do so. She must be powerful, it occurred to him, very powerful.

"Oh, don't be shy. I like men to possess some spirit, and I know you do."

What did she want with him? He felt heat spreading inside him as he realized that there could be only one possible meaning to her comment about Créon leaving him to her for the night. Did she truly want this? No woman ever even thought about that, not with him!

"Do you doubt yourself?" she purred against the side of his neck, one hand on his chest. "Never been told what a pretty thing you are? Or are you just worried because it will be your first time? Do not let it trouble you, my dove; I like the inexperienced boys. They can be taught and formed, whereas the others are more difficult to handle."

Was she a mind-reader, too, he wondered, trying hard to suppress the sensation of the blood boiling in his veins. His mind was too irritated and pain-stricken to tell him for sure if there was someone inside, examining his thoughts. He assumed she was.

If she would only send that red-haired wench away! Dirty offers were something he preferred to receive without listeners – especially since this was the first dirty offer he had got in his life. He would have appreciated it a lot more if it had come from Christine, but this Niobe… It might prove difficult to say no to her, and not because she forced him. Moreover, he would rather spend the night in some quiet corner with her than be near Créon. Anything but Créon! What a stroke of luck that she was around. And submitting to a woman would not be that difficult, he guessed, if it was done somewhere under a blanket.

Now wait a minute. He hardly knew this woman, and already he wanted to allow her to enjoy herself with him? For this one would not just yield and let him do as he pleased with her, this one would rather expect _him_ to yield. If she was truly interested, she should have to try a bit harder, for he would not simply give himself away to act as a woman's toy. Not even for Christine.

Oh well. Perhaps for Christine he would. If she really wanted him to.

"My sweet", Niobe whispered into his ear, while running one hand down along his side, "you will find that I take what I want, and if I want to toy with you, then this is what I will do." And then, without warning, she kissed him. At first he wanted to pull away as her lips met his own, but she had slipped one slender hand behind his head without him noticing and held him there, her other arm going around his waist. Exhausted as he was, he could only struggle feebly, and it was to no avail. Her grip was stronger than he would have thought. And then there was that feeling of heat, that searing, scorching heat inside him, creeping through his mind in burning tendrils, making all his resistance melt. When she at last released him, the only thing he could do was scowl at her.

"Don't pout, my lovely boy", Niobe mocked him. "It doesn't suit you."

"Leave me alone", he grated. "Why do you have to torment me?"

"Because I can't resist a pretty face, my dove."

"Don't call me pretty!" he snarled, his fury burning even hotter than the hateful fire she had kindled inside him.

"But you are", she said, in a tone as if patiently explaining something to a stubborn child. "And as for your scars… They are such a marvellously clear reminder of what you are. Not only the Devil's Touch, but also the touch of fire. It stands for strength and consuming passion, a passion so strong it may easily turn to –"

"Madness", he finished for her. "I know."

"So Créon _did_ tell you something." If she approved of this or not was impossible to tell; her tone and expression did not change. "Not that I expect you to be truly passionate at first, in case you still choose to be stubborn tonight, but it will come. After a few nights, maybe more and maybe less, your mind will have grown so used to obey my will that there will be no more room in it for the girl who broke your heart." Again he felt one of those waves of heat flood him and sweep over him, leaving him breathless. "There are three women in your life altogether, I see. Three women you care about. One is an old friend and one is the girl you love, while the third… the third is difficult to place", she admitted. "You are not quite clear about her." It sounded like a reproach. "A friend, it seems, yet you have seriously considered to settle with second-best. Though you hardly know her." She laughed softly, mockingly. "You seem to be quite desperate to at last get your hands on a woman. That makes you easy prey."

With all the anger boiling in him, as well as this insuppressible desire she had planted in him, he was almost surprised that she did not catch fire as he glared at her. Easy prey? He would _never_ be easy prey! Even though she could overwhelm him and make his body obey her, he would fight, he would struggle until the end.

As if this decision gave him new strength, he tried to push at that throbbing, pulsing sensation of heat, trying to force it out of his mind. At first, for a moment, it gave way, allowing him a brief moment of clear thought, which made his mind fill up with more rage, but then there was a sudden flash of searing pain, and she had him again, as firmly as before. Gasping for breath, he realized that she had gone wide-eyed and retreated a step, but she was already pretending that she had never been surprised. "You are very strong, pretty Erik", she crooned, tracing her hands along his arms, yet it was clear that she did not speak of physical strength. "It will only make the night more enjoyable."

Why did they have to use that name? It was a very personal thing, nothing of their business, and it made him feel vulnerable when they used it.

Which was the reason why they did so, of course.

Turning away from him briefly, Niobe addressed the woman who was accompanying her. "What do you think, is he not a lovely thing to decorate a bedchamber with?"

Fifi leered at him, exposing her decaying teeth. "He's a _beast_."

Niobe smiled. "Yes, there _is_ something feral about him, isn't there? I think I will greatly enjoy his company."

"He has nice legs, too", Fifi stated.

"He is quite perfect. Graceful and at the same time well-muscled, just how I like them." Niobe slowly and deliberately licked her lips. "High time I get another of that sort. Adhemar does not lack the muscles to suit me, yet I would prefer him to possess more grace."

"Oh, but my Lady, Adhemar is a most handsome man. And his scars are so dashing."

"Yet nothing compared to this one here", Niobe said firmly. "This one is greatly to my liking. I will guard him jealously. But if you serve me faithfully, I might let you touch him."

Listening to their conversation while standing as stiff as he could in an effort not to betray how much she affected him, how she made him tremble with longing for her touch, the part of the Phantom's awareness that was still his own was filled with wrath, and with shame. Shame at his own helplessness, at being exposed to those women like this, even to that weak-minded one, shame at being spoken about like this, and at his complete inability to resist. It only increased his dire fury. Yet however much he longed to destroy those two, and Créon, and everybody else, he felt as if in a daze, so strangely distant, and what was much closer and clearer was his desire, that accursed desire he could not fight.

Christine, forgive me. I can't help it.

"Can we not get a closer look?" Fifi inquired of her mistress, eyeing him longingly.

"Let's see." Reaching out, she grabbed him by the front of his shirt. He tried to twist away from her, while she yanked at him to pull him towards her, as far as his arms bound to the pole would allow. The result was a tearing noise, and a merry laugh from Niobe, as well as a wicked cackle from Fifi. "Seems like he is doing part of the work for us." She gave his shirt another tug, and the tearing sound was repeated.

He snarled at her furiously. Did they really have to play around with him where everyone could watch? And another good shirt ruined. Someone, he swore to himself, _someone_ was going to suffer for this!

Pulling his shirt out of his trousers completely, Niobe slid a hand beneath it, onto his stomach, and her fingers on his bare skin made him recoil at the same time as almost purr with pleasure. "Do you like what you see?"

"There is still too much covered", Fifi replied, reaching out for him herself.

Immediately Niobe tried to fend her off, and very briefly they struggled, completely tearing one of his sleeves, but then Fifi yelped and withdrew, and Niobe said dangerously, "Do not forget your place."

"Yes, my Lady", Fifi answered meekly, her head bowed, with something almost like a curtsy.

The matter of her servant settled, Niobe immediately returned her attention to the Phantom. Placing both hands on his stomach, beneath the torn fabric of his shirt, she slowly let them wander upwards. He snarled at her wordlessly, at the same time as leaning into her touch.

And then there came a cold, deep voice only too well known to him, a voice loathed above anybody else's. "This is enough, Niobe. Leave him alone." Créon was towering over her, a grim-faced Adhemar at his shoulder.

Echoing the Phantom's sound from before, Niobe gave what seemed to be a snarl, but she withdrew slowly under Créon's icy gaze.

"He is not yours", Adhemar said, the forced calm in his gruff voice very obvious. And at once the Phantom understood what Créon had meant earlier on when he had called him and Adhemar contenders for the same woman's affections. At once he knew why Adhemar hated him so much. The man was Niobe's lover, and he did not want to be replaced. Adhemar did not pursue Christine, after all. Oh, the Phantom could have laughed with relief!

Créon turned his one-eyed gaze on him, and he felt how his momentary happiness drained away beyond recall. More than ever he was aware of his torn shirt hanging off his left shoulder, somehow making him feel even more helpless than he had felt before. "You will yet have to learn, Niobe", Créon said quietly, "not to interfere with the property of the King of the Catacombs."


	32. VIII You cannot win

**VIII. You cannot win**

The mass of servants was closing in around him once more, yet the front ranks seemed to be reserved for the Lost Ones. They were all there, Adhemar and Aeternus, Niobe and Bertrand, Ferox and Atrox. And Créon was at their very front, his one single cold eye fixed on the Phantom's face. "It is time, young Erik", he announced, and a chorus of murmurs repeated, "It is time."

Drawing a deep breath and trying to stand as upright as possible, the Phantom steeled himself for what was to come.

Positioning himself at the Phantom's right side, Créon addressed his followers – or at least those he found worthy of addressing. "We have found our new initiate at last", he proclaimed. The flames of the braziers made bizarre shadows dance over his sharp, angular features. "Soon the plans of the Lost Ones will be complete, and a new age shall dawn for our kind."

Instead of the cheering the Phantom would have expected, there was silence, and all bowed their heads in reverence. What kind of plans were those? What was it Créon wanted? Was he truly going to challenge God, however he expected to achieve that?

This man was mad, totally mad!

And the worst about it was that he was too weak, too exhausted to fight any longer. And Créon knew, and was very sure that the Phantom was going to join his followers. For Créon, there would be no choice, there was only one option.

He should have ended this before tonight. He should have made an end to it all right after Christine had left, an end to Créon's mad plans as well as his own pathetic existence. Now Christine was gone, there was no sense to his life anymore. Destroyed utterly, it was time to choose the path into the gentle darkness at least now. He had already lost everything; he had nothing to lose. No glorious requiem, then. Just time to quietly depart.

Once again he drew a deep breath to steady himself. Now he had decided, he at once felt oddly calm. "You will have to find someone else to teach obedience", he told Créon quietly. "My life does not matter to me."

A murmur rose from the assembled, yet was hushed by their Master with a sharp wave of his hand. "Do not be foolish, boy. You are too young to throw your life away."

"What do I care?" the Phantom asked grimly. "I would rather die than once again be a captive and caged."

"Then let us kill him, Master!" Adhemar cried. "He has no right to defy you!"

"And _you_ had no permission to speak", Créon replied coolly, and Adhemar's cheeks coloured slightly, though it might just have been the unsteady firelight. "Very well, boy, let me make this clear: You are too valuable to die. Whatever your true choice may be, in the end it is mine that matters. You are no longer master of your own fate. I am." A disdainful smile lingered on his lips, yet his eye stayed as it always was, cold and empty. "I have seen your defiance; it does not come unexpected. I have seen your true form, your reflection in the spirit world, and I know you better than you know yourself. You will make a worthy sub-dominant to me, and the day may come when the world kneels before me and you stand at my right hand. Yet until then, you need a hand to guide you. And guide you I will. There is no escape for you, boy. I will not permit you to die."

So even death was denied to him now. All that awaited him was torment and constant humiliation, and he was not even allowed to set an end to his miserable life. And he had thought he had been defeated utterly before! But this was the complete, the ultimate defeat. He had fallen so far and deep that there was no way back up anymore.

Créon was watching him closely, stony-faced. "Tell me", he said at last, "who was the one you allowed access to your mind, just a moment ago?"

What did he have to ask for? "Her", the Phantom spat, jerking his chin in Niobe's direction. Laughing at his display of hatred, Niobe blew him a kiss.

"No. Earlier on."

"You, then", he snarled. "Why do you ask? You must know, after all."

"No", Créon repeated. "It was somebody else. The touch was brief and very shallow, but it was there. And I want to know who it was."

What new kind of humiliation was this, making him display his weakness in front of everyone? "I don't know", the Phantom growled. "But I'm sure you do." If he was forced to live, he would live to see Créon die!

"You know, young Erik", Créon remarked, "your mind is very peculiar. Most Lost Ones are a bit like that before they learn, but you… I have never encountered anything of the like before. It seems that part of your awareness is interwoven with someone else's, yet the link does not carry, it is not strong enough to allow me access, and I have tried several times."

Clenching his teeth, the Phantom forced his features to freeze as they were, not to move, not to reveal anything. He understood what this meant, even though the others did not: Créon had tried to touch Christine.

"Of course, a link this weak is practically useless", Créon continued. "This is why we have not delved any further into it. It seemed to me that this was nothing but the sign of a past failure, whatever you tried to do."

But the Phantom's teeth did not unclench. Practically useless. He concentrated hard on Créon's observation, leaving room for nothing else in his thinking awareness, especially not for a growing sensation that was so strong that he dreaded Créon would pick it up, despite his words, and – No, practically useless. Practically useless. Nothing there. Practically useless.

And at the same time, all that truly bothered him was to somehow tell her to go away, and as far away as possible.

They were all watching him, even the servants. Everybody was watching him. Did they not sense it, so dazzlingly, so overwhelmingly strong? Kalo was there, half scowling, half smirking at him from half behind Bertrand's shoulder, his dark face full of hatred. Could not even that foul gypsy feel it, so strong that there must be a glow around the Phantom now, an increasing light…

No, he was dreaming. He was going mad.

Niobe approached him gingerly, with glancing at Créon at every second step. Only when the Master did not interfere, her attitude picked up confidence, and then she stalked as if she had never hesitated at all. The Phantom watched her progress warily, concentrating desperately on his hatred towards her.

When she was with him, Niobe put both hands on his shoulders. "You can't escape _me_, either", she whispered. "The Master has given me leave to take you, should your answer be as it is. I'm grateful you value your life so little, for this way you will provide some entertainment tonight, especially if you put up a struggle. Oh, what a tasty morsel you will make!" Her laughter was like pearls of ice cascading down a waterfall as she stealthily damaged his already torn shirt some more.

He half-heartedly tried to pull away from her, hoping that she would be busy enough with fondling him not to notice what he did. She could rip his shirt to shreds and pass her hands over him all she liked, as long as she did not realize –

Créon's voice rang out loud and clear, crushing the Phantom's hope to sharp, cutting shards that stabbed into his insides. "It seems that we are going to have visitors."

In the ensuing silence, the soft grating of stone on stone as a trapdoor in the wall opened was unnaturally loud.


	33. IX You are not alone

**IX. You are not alone**

There were three shapes altogether, darting out of a suddenly opening up hole in the wall, with none other than Raoul de Chagny leading the way, waving a revolver in one hand, a sabre in the other. The gypsies before him retreated a few steps, uncertainly. Raoul cast a quick glance over the assembled, then picked out Créon immediately, just as if he knew who he was looking for. "You!" he bellowed, pointing his revolver at him, jutting out his chin grimly. "Don't move!"

The idiot! The complete idiot! Did he not realize that Créon had nothing to fear from him, as long as the Master still had his mental powers? Yet the Phantom did not bother himself with what the foolish boy's fate would be; all he truly saw was one of the slender shapes coming in Raoul's wake, positioning herself at his shoulder, so lovely with her wild dark curls all tangled and clutching a dagger in each hand. Hell be damned, but she was beautiful!

"Get out of my way", Raoul demanded, brandishing his revolver, and the Phantom realized that until now Créon had done nothing at all. Surely this could not still be his surprise at the sudden assault? What did that monster intend to do, what did he intend to do with his Christine? If she would only run, as long as she still had the chance!

For a moment, nothing happened, then, miraculously, Créon stepped aside, motioning his servants to clear a path.

"That's right", Raoul said with what he probably thought was grim satisfaction but what, to the Phantom's ears, rather sounded like a child who had just chased away another from his birthday cake. "If anyone makes a wrong move, I'll shoot him!" Then he turned to his two companions. "Untie him now."

With one accord they sprang forward, side by side, Meg even jostling a gypsy out of her way. They approached Niobe fearlessly, and Meg waved a sabre at her to make her back away – his very own sabre, the Phantom realized, just as the daggers Christine was carrying were his. Meg, still in his own clothes, was beaming at him, while Christine's features bore a warm, yet pained little smile. She must have felt what had happened to him, the Phantom realized. She must have shared his sufferings. Never again would he allow anything like that to happen to him, knowing it would hurt her as well! And he would rip Créon to shreds for this, he truly would!

Swiftly he felt the knots tying his hands coming loose, but there were many, and it took longer than he would have expected. At last, he was going to be free. Free! It was hard to believe, after all he had been through, that he should be released, and he did not understand why Créon did not intervene. The man just stood there, ignoring Raoul, and watched! And so did Niobe; she had simply moved aside a few steps, but she was still there, watching. Watching. Everybody was watching. Doing nothing, except watching.

The fires in the braziers were still flickering, the shadows still dancing, but otherwise time seemed to have stopped.

When the cords finally gave way, it took all the Phantom's concentration not to stumble forward or fall to his knees. He longed to put an arm around Christine's shoulders for support, but he would not display weakness. Never again! And he would not this way point out to Créon and his men who among his rescuers he held dearest of all.

Rescuers. No, he still did not entirely believe that what was going on was real. Was this not just another illusion of Créon's, created to torment him? Any moment now, they were going to take them all captive and tie them to poles. Any moment now. But this time, he was ready to die to defend the girls. He would not let Créon have them.

Any moment now…

Taking up his hands, Meg examined his wrists in turn, running her fingertips over the angry red welts and grazed spots his ties had created. "Does it hurt?"

Did it? He shook his head. If they did, he could not feel it. All he felt was that pain that was no pain, that pain in his mind.

And then Christine was there, with his cloak and his mask. Only now he truly realized that his face was uncovered, but it was too late; Christine already stood facing him from the right. How brave she was, not to wince when looking at him! And how beautiful, how incredibly beautiful… Taking the mask from her, with nothing but her before his eyes and on his mind, he still remembered to turn his head away when Meg came over to join Christine, so that at least someone did not have to see his face.

Putting his mask back on made him feel much better, much less vulnerable, and even standing upright without swaying seemed easier to him now. With his mask back, he was again who he had used to be before he had fallen into Créon's hands. He was himself once more.

"Come on", Christine said softly, touching his arm, and for a tiny, perfectly blissful moment he forgot all the pain. "We'll get you out of here. Everything will be alright."

Normally he would have been annoyed about being spoken to like a child, but it did not matter to him now. Nothing mattered, except that Christine was there. And Christine could treat him like a child as much as she wanted to. No amount of annoyance in the world could overcome that feeling of warmth rising in his insides.

He tried to straighten his shirt, or what was left of it, ready to leave – if Créon would truly let them, that was, and he still doubted it – but it was useless. The fabric was much too torn to still fit him properly; all he managed to do was become tangled in it. With a growl, he pulled it off, ignoring Niobe's snicker, and tossed it in her direction. She could keep it for all he cared, and snog with it all night! Taking his cloak from Christine, he threw it around his shoulders, despite his lack of a shirt feeling sufficiently dressed now. Were not his cloak and mask all he truly needed?

Meg signed to Raoul, and the foolish boy waved his revolver and snapped, "Clear a path! Move away from the door!" Did he not see that it was never going to work? No, he was just plain stupid. Why did that impertinent milksop have to turn up down here? As much as the Phantom welcomed the girls' help, though he did not want to think about what Créon might wish to do to them now, he refused to accept Raoul's.

Once again Créon did the unbelievable: He motioned to his followers, and immediately the way was clear to the arch framed by the pair of angels, though several among the servants were fingering their belt-knives longingly. Adhemar's face was grim as he watched them, but he, too, made no move to intervene. "We will meet again, young Erik", Créon said quietly.

"Come on", Christine repeated, nodding towards the exit under the archway. Both she and Meg fell in beside him as they made their way towards it. It was not easy and took some concentration, but the Phantom tried to walk as upright as he could, without any signs of exhaustion or dizziness. Although he would have preferred to put an arm around each of them for support, he made himself go without, and he even took made an effort not to try to press his shoulder blades together as he progressed further, even though he could almost feel his enemies' gazes boring into his back, and he did not trust that insolent slimeball of a cockroach to give them some proper cover. But still, he refused to turn around.

Past clusters of servants they went, gypsies as well as others, most of them men, but a few women, too, grimy-faced as often as in ragged clothes. He took in every detail now. Past Bertrand, at whose distorted face Meg gave a shudder; past Adhemar with his hard, claw-marred features, his pale eyes shining with hatred. Past Aeternus, whose expression was impassive, as was that of his fair-haired followers, who once again stood at either side of him; one of them, with a calm, serious face and a sharp nose, around forty years of age, while the other was probably in his mid-twenties, his features retaining much of boyhood, and both of them with intelligent blue eyes, as the Phantom now noticed. He briefly wondered what kind of men they were and what made them trail Aeternus so faithfully. Past Ferox and Atrox they went, and past the carefully ordered heaps of supply goods Créon had had brought in, the girls keeping their attitudes remarkably well, and already were but a few paces from the exit, when suddenly Kalo stepped into their path. Curse him, did that fat old brute never learn? The light from the braziers flickered across his rough features, distorted in fury, as he tried to bar their way. The Phantom wanted to shoulder him aside, yet surprisingly Meg reacted before he did, the sabre darting upwards in her hand and piercing the man's arm before she withdrew it again. With a half-strangled howl, Kalo staggered out of their way. Turning around despite himself, the Phantom searched for anyone who would step in to intervene and take revenge, quite ready to rip off that unfortunate fellow's head with his bare hands to ensure the girls' safety, but nobody did. The only one who moved behind him was Raoul, walking backwards slowly as he kept Créon and the others in check with his revolver. Créon stood as a statue, towering above every other man around him, and his one single eye was still on the Phantom, cold and calculating. What did he plan? What was he going to do?

They reached the arch flanked by the pair of sculpted angels and passed through it, and were briefly bathed in the unearthly red light of the lantern above the doorway before they stepped out into the welcoming gloom of the corridor.

Free at last. The Phantom hardly dared to believe it at first, but with every step he took, it slowly became certainty, and relief flooded him, washing away the worst of his exhaustion and pain. Walking upright was growing easier the longer he went, and he stopped clutching his cloak around him and enjoyed the cool, moist air on his skin instead, so very welcome after the underground hall's suffocating heat.

Free at last.

He wanted to pull both girls into a tight embrace, yet postponed this idea until later on, when he would have had the chance to scrub off all the dirt and sweat. Instead, he caressed Christine's shoulder briefly. "Thank you", he said warmly. "Both of you. I couldn't have done it without you." It was not easy to admit so, yet Christine's presence made it easier. "But promise me one thing: Never again endanger yourself just to get me out of trouble."

"You watched over me for years, even over my dreams, and you were always there when I needed you", Christine replied. "I owed you that much."

"And besides", Meg added, grinning and flourishing the bloodied sabre, "it felt good." Then her free hand went into her pocket, and she held out his ring for him to take. "Here, you'll be missing it."

"Thanks." He put it back into his pocket. Christine was watching him, he noticed, and as she saw the ring, there was a brief flicker of emotion on her face, so quickly gone that it was impossible to determine. Yet the feeling at the back of his head spoke of sorrow. Did she truly care, then? Were those memories as painful to her as they were to him? He did not ask; now was not the time for it.

There was something else on his mind, though, a very disconcerting thought: _What is it Créon is planning to do? This rescue was much too easy to be against his will…_


	34. BOOK SIX: The Touch of Light

**Book Six: The Touch of Light**

I. Hide no longer  
II. Your Hand at the Level of your Eyes  
III. Be my Guest  
IV. Lust for Blood  
V. One Love, one Lifetime  
VI. Learn to be lonely  
VII. Black Despair  
VIII. Sweet Seduction  
IX. To guard you and to guide you

Author's Note: _Wow, that's a huge lot of reviews I'll have to answer! Thank you for every single one. But first, I have an announcement to make: I've finished the book. And it will have a slight influence on the story's development, I think, but I trust you to spot that without me hinting at it. (Oh boy, Madame Giry boxing that manager's ears had me grin maniacally for hours! lol)_

_Clever Lass: Thank you for your help with my embarrassing little mistakes. I humbly apologize for confusing "to jut" with "to jot", that was just plain stupid. No, Créon won't that that soon, and also not that easily. And your questions will be answered in the third chapter of this Book._

_Laura Kay: I didn't realize I was "juxtapositioning". lol_

_sbkar__: I really like how you tell me about your musings. To know what's going on in a reader's mind is very interesting. Also, thanks for sharing your "darkness theory", I hadn't yet thought of that. Calling Créon icky made me laugh. g And all your questions will be answered in time, don't worry. ;)_

_Anya__: Well spotted. The mission worked out, but it'll give everybody's favourite Ghost quite a lot of worries, and maybe… no, I'm not telling yet. :p But as far as I know you by now, I suppose you can guess anyway. You practically did already. Thank you for all those long reviews. And yes, I find women carrying sabres and daggers hot. ;) And your questions, too, will be answered soon._

_drujan__: I've been waiting for someone to spot those little inside jokes. Yes, the "man so evil that Hell itself spat him back out" was indeed a Pirates of the Caribbean reference. And there are some more, if you look closely. I enjoy putting in inside jokes very much. My favourite until now is in the very same chapter: If you watch the scene in Star Wars Episode I where little Anakin first meets Padmé and then re-read the flashback with little Christine, you'll know what I mean. g I just couldn't stop myself, and I thought The Phantom Menace was very fitting – in more than one sense. gg_

_Venus725__: Mean, isn't it, that I'm still not revealing what the flaming hell he really is… :p maybe you'll find it comforting that you're going to get some more naughtiness. ;)_

_One more thing: Translations for lines in foreign languages (well, mainly Latin, but eventually there'll be Italian and German) will be posted on the review board._


	35. I Hide no longer

**I. Hide no longer**

In no time at all, they had reached the Phantom's lair. To Christine, everything looked just as she had last seen it, two days ago, though darker, because many of the candles illuminating the grotto had burned down in the meantime, leaving it in a dim twilight. Only when she regarded her surroundings closer, she realized that instead of being more or less neatly arranged, everything looked somewhat jumbled, just as if somebody had been searching through it without taking too much care to hide his presence. Had those searching for her on that night found the lair, or had _they_ been there, those mysterious villains she and her friends had just encountered? And there was something else, too: All the tall mirrors lining the wall were cracked.

Firmly pushing back all the memories, happy as well as sad, that came to her mind in here, she turned to face the Phantom. The light was too weak to see him clearly, but even in semi-darkness, he did not look too good to her, with sagging shoulders despite all his efforts to keep himself upright, several cuts, welts and bruises visible where the cloak did not cover him, and that haunted look in his eyes, magnified by her sharpened awareness of him, that look of pain and dire, merciless hatred… It was hard not to shiver when looking at him. "Get all the things you need for a few days out", she told him hurriedly, avoiding his eyes. "Your home is no longer safe."

"Where do you want me to go?" There was suspicion in his voice, which did not surprise her. After that experience down in the underground hall, all the trust he had had, very little from the beginning, would be gone completely.

She smiled up at him, hoping to soothe his concerns. "Wait and see."

His expression did not change as he turned and disappeared past a curtain into what probably was a niche in the rock wall, throwing his cloak down over a chair a bit more violently than necessary as he passed it, but at least he went. Christine had been worrying about what they would do should he refuse, or should he inquire any closer about what she had in store for him. For her part, she would have preferred to give him a truthful answer straight away, yet she feared that if he found out too soon, he might well go back to his captors, all because of his crazy pride.

At least Raoul had agreed to let her take charge after the actual rescue was finished, or else there probably would be even more trouble than she could possibly imagine.

Meg winked at her, then pulled a tattered handkerchief that had definitely seen better times from her pocket and started to clean the blood off the sabre with it, grinning like a pirate. So adventurous her friend was, and so bold! Christine admired her for her spirit. She would never be as brave as Meg, she thought, or as Raoul.

Her fiancé was sauntering around the grotto in the meantime, having a closer look at everything. When he reached the organ, he whistled through his teeth in surprise. "I wonder how he got that thing? Well, probably filched it from somewhere."

Christine could only shrug. Most of the furniture down here clearly came from one or the other stage production, but she had no idea how the Phantom had acquired the organ.

"He'll be needing someone to clean all his cuts", Meg remarked slyly, rubbing the handkerchief over the blade furiously.

Smiling, Christine shook her head. How naughty. What would Madame Giry have to say to this? "Knowing him as I do, I'm afraid he'll prefer to do that for himself, Meg."

"I might persuade him, then." Meg gave the sabre one last violent scrub, then crumpled up the handkerchief and, to Christine's horror, simply stuffed it back into her pocket. Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she added, "Well, if he absolutely refuses to let me, I won't force him, but he could at least let me watch."

"Honestly, Meg", Christine sighed. "You really should stop ogling him like that."

"But you see my point, don't you?"

Christine cleared her throat, hoping that she was just imagining the heat in her cheeks. "Really, I think it's those clothes", she said, adopting a mockingly stern tone and raising a threatening finger at her friend, waggling it under her nose. "They make you behave most indecently. I'm just waiting for you to start swaggering next, or grunt and belch and say rude things in a rude voice, things like _Wouldn't push that out of bed, hur hur hur_."

Promptly Meg jerked her chin towards the curtained niche the Phantom had disappeared to. "Wouldn't push _that_ out of bed, hur hur hur!" she proclaimed in a gruff voice, then broke into giggles.

"_Meg_!" But it was impossible for Christine not to giggle along. After all the worry and tension of the past few hours, it just felt so good to laugh and be silly again.

"Hey! You're having fun without me?" Raoul came trotting over, grinning at them. "I want to have something to laugh about, too."

Just then, the Phantom returned, with a leather scrip thrown over one shoulder, and Raoul immediately resumed his stance of wariness from before. The Phantom ignored him completely, though. Passing him just as if he were air, he knelt down at the water's edge and hurriedly splashed himself a little, rubbing off the worst of dirt and sweat. Christine thought to catch a brief glimmer of scarlet above his waistband before he straightened again, and remembering what Meg had told her about her adventure the day before almost made her start giggling once again, and she mentally reproached herself for her sudden fit of silliness.

Yet a second glance immediately sobered her up. What was it on his back, those pale lines, barely visible, but clear enough to still be seen? Were those scars? And if so, where had he gotten them? Or was she just imagining things, as her eyes slowly got accustomed to the gloom?

Once more passing Raoul without paying the slightest heed to him, the Phantom disappeared into what Christine knew to be his bedchamber, only to reappear a moment later, stuffing something into his scrip, this time wearing a shirt, dark blue linen embroidered with silver and green. Meg looked a little disappointed, and Christine made a mental note of having a quiet and serious word with her friend sometime soon.

In the meantime, Meg was trying to sheathe the sabre again, but without much success, muttering to herself angrily. After throwing ink bottle and quill and a wad of writing paper into his bag and pulling it closed, the Phantom quietly stepped in to interfere, catching the blade between his fingers and guiding its way.

Meg beamed at him. "Be mindful of your fingers", she teased him.

"Be mindful of your tongue", he replied coolly, then went to present himself before Christine. "Done", he reported.

She was just undoing the two dagger belts she had buckled on earlier, and he took them back from her, and they wandered into his scrip as well. For a moment his eyes flickered to his sabre, but Meg made no move to unbuckle the belt and hand it over, and he let her keep it for now. "What do you want me to do next?" he asked, his voice tinged with irony.

Not that Christine had truly expected him to show more gratefulness than necessary, especially in Raoul's company, but he could have been just a little more polite. "The stables", she replied curtly.

Without any further comment, he turned and headed over to one of the mirrors, picking up his cloak as he went, and worked what probably was a hidden catch in the frame, for suddenly it sprang open, revealing the dark entrance to a hidden tunnel. "If you please", he said with a mock little bow.

Raoul cast Christine an uncertain glance, and when she nodded, he stepped into the darkness first. The Phantom wrinkled his nose at him, but otherwise showed no reaction. Meg followed, and then Christine, squinting into the gloom. It was a low, narrow tunnel, she saw, barely allowing the Phantom to walk upright in it. Then he pulled the glass closed behind him, and the light of the few candles outside, though still visible through the glass, grew dimmed. It was impossible to see where they were heading.

"Come on", the Phantom growled. "Move."

There came a muttered curse from Raoul in the gloom, and then he and Meg carefully advanced. Christine made to follow them, hoping there would be no hidden obstacles in the darkness before her, when she suddenly felt the Phantom's fingers closing around hers. "Don't be afraid of the dark", he whispered, gently squeezing her hand.

At first Christine wanted to protest that she wasn't, but to be honest, she _did_ feel a little uncomfortable in the dark. More than a little, actually, as far as dark passages and tunnels were concerned. So she left her hand in his. Moreover, he would not have liked it if she had pulled away, and she wanted him to be as cooperative as possible, or else he would get troublesome when he found out where they were going. And since it was quite impossible to just pick him up by the scruff of his neck and put him into a coach, she had better keep him as pleased as possible.

And it _did_ help against her uncomfortable feeling, knowing that he was very close.

She still trusted him, she realized, even after all he had done.

Yes, because before he had done all that, he had been her Angel, and she had trusted him with everything. Some habits were hard to break.

Soon the passage turned into a steep spiral staircase, a narrow, lightless staircase which never seemed to end. The Phantom now rather chose to guide her by a hand on her shoulder, following close behind her. Ahead, there was the occasional mutter as Meg and Raoul stubbed their toes.

How could one choose to live in this eternal night, abjuring the sunlight and the sight of the sky? She knew that she herself would never have been able to. If the Phantom could… But she wondered if he truly could, if he really was content to be part of the darkness, as he had once mentioned, or if he did not secretly hunger for the touch of light upon his face.

After what must have been only minutes, but felt like an eternity, the endless stairwell finally came to an end, and there was a dim light ahead, and warmth, and the smell of hay. Raoul and Meg came to a stop, and the Phantom squeezed forward past her towards what seemed to be a dead end, and judging from Raoul's grunt, he brushed him aside a lot more roughly than necessary. What exactly he did Christine could not see, but soon a low, narrow hatch sprang open, allowing them access to what she recognized as the hayloft of the Opera House's stables.

Outside waited their coach, Christine knew, and inside, just in front of the door, she saw that Madame Giry was waiting. "So there you are", the mistress of ballet stated, managing a stern tone despite her obvious relief at seeing them.

"Yes, there we are." Raoul beamed at her. "The only real problem we had to face was how to open that trapdoor into the underground hall. But once we had it all figured out, it was easy enough." He patted the revolver he had tucked into his belt, then added, thoughtfully, "In fact, it rather was _too_ easy than anything. I mean, there were forty or something of them, and only the three of us."

"Not quite as stupid as you look, then", the Phantom muttered. Raoul glared at him furiously, but said nothing; after all, Christine had made him promise to be nice to the Phantom. Making the Phantom promise the same thing would be absolutely necessary, yet certainly a lot more difficult.

"Oh, Erik, where are your manners?" Madame Giry exclaimed. "Oh well, you never had any to start with, except when you wanted to. But all the same, you silly boy, I'm so glad to have you back." Completely ignoring his threatening growl, she pulled him into a rib-cracking hug, letting him go only to start smoothing his hair.

Erik. This was the second time in a very short period Christine heard that name, and from two very different persons. Did the Phantom have a name, then? He had claimed to have none, but it seemed that he had one after all. That eerie one-eyed man down in the cellars, the one who had apparently tormented him so, had used that name, too. How came he knew it, and she did not? That Madame Giry would know was not surprising, but that this villain would… Was there any connection between him and the Phantom, any link to his mysterious past? It was not a pleasant thought, Christine realized.

The Phantom tried to withdraw, but Madame Giry insisted on bringing some order into his dishevelled hair, whatever his opinion. Just like with one of her charges from the ballet, Christine thought. Maybe it made dealing with the Phantom easier, regarding him as such. She assumed it did. The only difficulty about it was that the Phantom did not approve in the least. His growl was repeated, and more threatening than before.

Obviously Madame Giry thought just the same, because she desisted from him at last and took to smoothing her skirts instead. "Anyway", she said, "I've never been happier to see you."

"When have you ever been happy to see me?" It would have sounded like a bitter reproach, except for the small grin playing around his lips.

"Oh, you scoundrel!" She playfully swatted his unmasked cheek, just like she did with Meg sometimes. "It's high time we get you out of here."

"Where?" he demanded, at once tense like a drawn bowstring. Indeed, he did not trust anybody, it seemed.

"I'd like to keep you with me", Christine said. "I know just the perfect place for you." If he put some thought to this, it would be easy enough to know where she wanted him to go, but this way it possibly sounded as tempting to him as it could get.

"Me too", he stated, leering at her, and she would have liked to slap him for the indecency of his gaze. Tempting indeed! "I'll never leave your side."

"Good", she said, ignoring Raoul's glare. "What are we waiting for, then?"


	36. II Your Hand at the Level of your Eyes

**II. Your Hand at the Level of your Eyes**

"And to think we expected it all to be over by yesterday morning, at the very latest." Gilles André was sitting hunched over his desk, his fists pressed to his temples. "It's horrible, it's absolutely horrible! And I can't believe the police are just doing nothing."

"Now, now", said Richard Firmin, sitting at the desk across from André's, but his expression was no less distressed than his partner's. "It's not that they're doing nothing. They just haven't found anything yet."

"Then they haven't tried hard enough", André insisted. "And have they ever been here, after that night? No! The officer responsible just claims that Ghost has been driven out, and that they'd put up his description all over the city, but that's about it! No help at all, and that Ghost is plainly here still!"

Firmin sighed. "Now look, I can fully understand your agitation, as I have just the same Ghost problem, but if you would kindly not distract me for a moment… Thank God, only two chorus members signing off. But we'll have to get a new lead tenor, and quickly. And a new chandelier. This is going to be expensive." Sighing again, he ran his hands through his black, though partially grey-flecked hair. "And the costs for all the necessary repairs… Say, do you think we could put a notice in the papers already, about the tenor?"

"Too early", André snapped. "Nobody will come to apply."

"Yes, I feared so", Firmin muttered gloomily.

"The way you're going on about finding a tenor on the spot, you might be quite ready to listen to Reyer's crazy suggestion", André said scathingly.

"Really? What did the old chap say?"

"He said we should hire this Phantom, if he wants to see any further payment, and he reckons he does. Went on about his incredible voice and all for an eternity, he did." André snorted furiously. "Even if we could find that maniac – the Ghost, I mean, not Reyer, though Reyer is coming close – who could say when he commits the next murder or damages the Opera House some more? Singers keep their hands at the level of their eyes even on stage, and I daresay they'd have every reason. And nobody will ever dare to set foot under our roof again."

Firmin tossed aside a pile of papers. "Well, tell him to go down and get that freak up to our office, then, and we'll discuss it all."

André leaned forward over his desk, fixing his partner with a flat stare. "_What was that_?"

"I _said_, tell him, that is Reyer, to go down, that is to the cellars, and get that freak, that is the Phantom, up to our office, that is where you are currently sitting, and we, that is you and me and –"

"Have you lost your wits?" André interrupted. "My dear partner, perhaps you are not aware of the fact that you are referring to the very same individual who caused our lack of a lead tenor in the first place, and by murdering the man, mind you. You want to get _that lunatic_ under contract?"

"I must say I'm seriously considering letting Reyer have a try with him", Firmin answered, in a voice as reasonable as possible. "I won't have a quiet night until everything is arranged again, and that missing tenor, among other things, is a great worry to me. Good Heavens, André, we're hopefully re-opening before the season is over! The sooner we know what we will be giving then, the better." Then he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "And it was Reyer's idea, so we will let _him_ give it a try. If it works, we save the expenses of notices in the papers, and if it doesn't –"

"Then we'll additionally have the post of a conductor to fill", André finished for him. "My dear partner, you are raving. And besides, nobody would come to the performances if we put his name in the program."

"Not necessarily. You know what people are like. The worse things which occur are, the better the audience likes it. It's not that we actually write _murders committed on stage_ on posters, but this is what people expect, why they come. I'm sure the house would be even fuller if we _did _write that on posters."

"We won't", André said straight away. "This is absolutely tasteless!"

Firmin shrugged. "It's business, André."

"Whatever it is, we're writing no such thing on posters, and we're certainly employing no Ghost!" André was almost spluttering with indignation. "Not with what happened, and not with what is still going on!"

"What_ is_ going on, then?" Firmin asked wearily.

"I don't know", André admitted. "But from what I have been told… People have been seen in the higher cellars, complete strangers, sneaking around."

"I'm sorry, but that says _absolutely nothing_ about –"

"And some stagehands have gone missing", André overrode his partner. "Nobody knows where they have gotten to."

"Probably in one of the surrounding taverns, and due to turn up again someday soon", Firmin said lightly. "You can't expect them to stay here all the time, especially since there is no proper work for them currently, except for those working on repairing the stage and auditorium. Those missing stagehands of yours will turn up again soon enough."

"I wouldn't count on that", André said sceptically. "Their number includes the one whose place is up in the flies, the successor of the late Joseph Buquet, who, just to remind you, made the fatal mistake not to keep his hand at the level of his eyes. And, quite contrary to his predecessor, that missing one is a very decent, hard-working and reliable man, from what I've heard. They say he never even touches one single drop of alcohol, the crazy ascetic. And he and some of the others help with all the reconstruction work, without even receiving proper payment for it. Do you really expect a man like this to just disappear into a tavern?"

"Not quite", Firmin admitted. "But let us wait. Maybe they will turn up again soon." Yet by now he sound as if he himself did not truly believe in it anymore, and the way his right hand wandered up uncertainly before he realized what he was doing and slammed it back down onto the table firmly revealed more than words could have.

With an agonized sigh, André returned to pressing his fists to his temples. "God give they will", he muttered.


	37. III Be my Guest

**III. Be my Guest**

When he considered it, Raoul found that it had been absolutely necessary to send the servants away. This did not mean that he liked the idea very much, however.

He had been very clever, in his own opinion. When they had arrived at his family's city residence late this afternoon, he had gone in with the girls and proclaimed a free evening for all the servants, which they had found very welcome news. He only hoped that they would not grow suspicious, what with him and Christine first taking the coach to the Opera, then returning hastily to deposit the driver and the footman as well as a young dog back at home and pick up a bundle of things, mainly containing his revolver, only to hasten away again, with him driving himself, and on coming back bringing Meg along, who was still wearing men's clothes. But all of them had taken the opportunity gladly, and the information that Meg was going to spend the night in one of the guestrooms had been quite sufficient for them.

The next difficulty had been getting the Phantom into the house unobserved. In the end they had decided to have him climb in through the kitchen window, which he had surprisingly done with no arguing at all and an unexpected amount of grace while doing so. Leaping in from the outer windowsill accompanied by half a snowdrift, he had somehow managed to convey the feeling that this was the most common and dignified thing on earth a man could do. Even the cook had grudgingly admitted him into her realm, and that was saying something.

Among the personnel, the cook was the only one who had stayed. Not that Raoul hadn't offered her a free evening, but she had refused to accept it, insisting that he and the two young ladies needed something proper to eat. She was a formidable woman, always kind, but she always got her way in the end, and Raoul had not wanted to argue, especially since she still saw in him a nice little boy she could stuff with sweets, and smack his bottom if he was not behaving well. Reluctant though he was to admit so, the cook still held a certain authority with him.

As for the Phantom, the cook had realized immediately who he was, but bringing home the very man whose name was all over the city's papers had only earned Raoul raised eyebrows from her. After all, he had always been allowed to bring all the playmates he chose. Now it had been quite clear to her why the maid who usually helped her in the kitchen had been sent away, and Raoul had hoped that she would pick the right substitute to assist her, yet it had turned out that there were certain limits to her ability of outstaring people, and she had chosen someone else to help her instead.

Which was why Raoul, after going out pretending to catch fresh air while in fact doing his best to cover up the Phantom's footsteps in the snow, had soon found himself laying out the table and peeling potatoes. Christine and Meg had immediately volunteered to assist him, though, and in the end the Phantom had been brought to cut up cucumbers and tomatoes, which Raoul had seen as a small kind of personal triumph, although it had, of course, been Christine who had done the persuading.

Now, after a rich and very enjoyable dinner, Raoul was up to his elbows in soapy water, washing the dishes, and regretting bitterly to have sent the maid away. He could have let the cook do the washing-up on her own, of course, but he would have had a bad conscience about it, and having Christine do it was absolutely out of the question. So he laboured in the kitchen, under the stern eyes of the cook, spurred on by the thought that the Phantom was currently alone with the girls in the living room. Not that Raoul expected him to do anything nasty as long as Meg was still around, but all the same, he did not like the idea at all.

And he would have to have a quiet word with him about a certain red mark on his fiancée's neck… The thought made him scrub the dishes with even grimmer ardour.

To be exact, he did not want that mad underground creature in this house. The trouble was that Christine seemed to be very concerned about the fellow, and moreover, it would not have felt right to just leave him to this sinister one-eyed man and his cronies, or to save him from the man only to leave him somewhere completely helpless, and with no idea where to go. It would have been honourless, acting like that.

The Phantom had not been exactly outgoing as far as his adventures with those people where concerned, yet he had given them some account of what had happened over dinner, and although Raoul had not quite understood part of it, it had given him reason enough to worry. A maniac with such powers unleashed upon the world? The Phantom was bad enough already! They had to do something about this Créon, he felt, and soon, before anything really bad occurred. But what? Just walk back down and kill him? Despite the Phantom's opinion, Raoul was no fool, and he had guessed before he had heard of Créon's powers that the rescue had somehow fitted into the man's plans, though it was impossible to say how. Trying to kill the man would hardly be as easy as getting the Phantom away had been.

Raoul sighed. This was definitely more than he had bargained for. All of his life he had hoped to find adventures, and this was also why he had decided to join the navy, yet he found that, due to recent events, he was quite fed up with adventures. If not for Christine, he would have longed to go back to his ship and spend all the evenings playing cards with the other young lieutenants, and have an altogether boring time.

At last his work in the kitchen was done, and after washing off all the soap bubbles, he, too, went to the living room, where he found everybody having a good time. The dog was lying on the carpet in front of the fireplace, contentedly gnawing a large bone, while Christine and Meg were sitting on the sofa, and the Phantom was occupying Raoul's favourite armchair, lounging in it as if he owned the place. The girls were giggling uncontrollably, and the Phantom, looking much better now than earlier on, was grinning. It seemed that he greatly enjoyed the girls' company. When he saw Raoul, he offered him an unpleasant little smirk for a greeting.

Raoul ground his teeth. The arrogance of him!

"Really?" Meg snorted, barely understandable because she was laughing so hard. "What did she say?"

"She was upset, wasn't she?" Christine giggled.

"Very much so", said the Phantom. He had discarded his cloak and was now sitting quite comfortably just in his shirt, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "She took personal offence at it."

"How can you take personal offence at broccoli?" Meg wondered, gasping for breath.

"Don't ask me. _She_ can."

"But you have something to do with it, I suppose?" Christine suspected.

"Well… let's say it was me who threw the bowl in the first place."

This was enough to cause a fresh wave of giggles, and the Phantom wore an awfully smug look.

Raoul settled down comfortably in another armchair left unoccupied, with one leg draped lazily over the armrest. If the Phantom thought that he was the only one who could lounge, he should be shown otherwise! "What's that about?" he asked.

"Carlotta", Christine explained. Her cheeks were flushed from laughter, and she was looking absolutely lovely, in Raoul's opinion.

"Oh, I see." It sounded like there had been quite a funny trick played on the Opera Populaire's prima donna, but currently there was something else on Raoul's mind. "Now", he said, trying to convey the same sense of smugness he had heard from the Phantom when addressing his rival, "let's break you in to the rules. Number one, this is _my_ house, so there's to be no women-chasing here. Number two, I don't hold with hypnotizing, or whatever it is you do to people. And number three, you don't leave such nasty red marks on my girl's neck."

The Phantom sneered at him, completely unimpressed. "Oh, really? Then it will disappoint you to hear that I generally don't abide by the rules. And the incident you're referring to took place in _my_ territory, where _I _am making the rules."

"Now listen here", Raoul said grimly, sitting up properly for greater authority, "I didn't get you out of that fix you landed yourself into just for your own sake, but because Christine asked me to. Not that I expected any thanks from you, for that matter, but you might at least stick with general decency. I'll be glad to have you out of here, but until then you might take the chance to improve your manners."

"You listen to _me_, fop", the Phantom retorted. "I never asked you to meddle in my affairs, and I wouldn't have needed you, either, since I was perfectly capable of… well, never mind, none of your business." His brief hesitation was accompanied by a scowl, probably because he had realized just in time that this was a lie nobody was going to believe. "Moreover, I have very little patience today, and you're already straining it as far as it will go, so I'd advise you to drop the subject."

"You think I'm a fop, do you?" Raoul asked furiously. How dare he! "Some brainless idiot only concerned about his looks?"

"Boys…" Meg began tentatively, yet the Phantom paid her no heed, but smirked at Raoul instead. "Precisely my point. Though I wouldn't have expected you to get the message that quickly."

"See who's talking!" Raoul snapped, clutching the armrests to prevent himself from jumping at the Phantom's throat straight away. "You're so arrogant it's hardly possible, and you're a pervert trying to –"

"Enough!" Meg bellowed, and both men looked at her in surprise. "You're a nice pair of babies, squabbling like this when you need to stand together for once! The next thing I expect you to do is start a fight over who may sit next to Christine and then be surprised when she isn't impressed at your oh so very masculine behaviour! You're too old for this, for Christ's sake! Both of you!"

Raoul felt his jaw drop. Who was she calling a baby? Why did she include _him_? There was nothing he had done wrong, and it was perfectly right to point out to that foul creature of a man just what kind of fellow he was! A sharp retort was already on his tongue, yet he bit it back. There were things you didn't say to ladies, even if they were wearing men's clothes and had been waving a sabre until a short time ago.

Only then he noticed that Christine had clasped both hands over her mouth and was positively shaking with mirth. So she found that funny, did she? Funny indeed, Meg telling him off in front of the Phantom! This was no laughing matter, especially not for his fiancée!

But then he bit his tongue in annoyance at himself. He had no right to be angry at Christine. He had sworn that to himself. Even if she laughed at him, it was not his place to reproach her.

"So, now that is settled", Meg said firmly, "we might discuss the question of who sleeps where, and of tomorrow's breakfast."

"Quite your mother's temper", the Phantom stated sarcastically. "Always as gentle as a lamb, and never raising your voice."

"Oh, shut up", Meg muttered, a blush rising in her cheeks, and poked out her tongue at him.

"That's a good suggestion", Christine took over quickly, while the Phantom once again put on that arrogant little smirk Raoul knew so well and hated so passionately. "Meg, I think you can have one of the guest rooms on the first floor, and as for you…" She was regarding the Phantom with an expression of uncertainty.

"I'll be glad to take your threshold as a pillow, thank you very much."

"Which is the threshold to _my_ room, just for your information", Raoul put in. He did not recall ever feeling so smug in his entire life.

The look the Phantom gave him was one of pure loathing. "Down here, then", he said icily.

"There are enough guest rooms…" Christine began.

"But you don't want the servants to find out that there's another guest here, now do you?" Even when speaking to Christine, his voice was cold now, and carried a tinge of cruel irony.

For a moment they all sat in silence, and Raoul promised to himself to lock the door to his room more carefully than ever before. But not even imagining to push a wardrobe against it made him feel comfortable. True, the Phantom was a guest, but Raoul had been reluctant and thoroughly unhappy to welcome him, and the idea of this madman lose somewhere in the house at night made him wonder if he should sleep at all, or if he had not better stay awake and keep his revolver handy.

"Sorry to bring it up again", Meg said at last, "but there's something I've been wondering about: How did those… Lost Ones get into the cellars in the first place?"

A good question. Raoul mentally slapped himself for not thinking of it earlier, as it might be essential as soon as they started working on plans about how to get rid of the lot.

"The sewers", the Phantom replied, and with the air of someone tired of explaining simple things over and over again. "There's an access close to where they made their camp."

"Bloody hell", Raoul muttered. Of course. This explained how they had managed to enter the Opera House unseen, and how they could have brought in all the supply goods a large party like this would be needing. And probably where they went to the lavatory, too. Simple, but brilliant.

The dog got up, yawned and stretched, then turned around itself two and a half times before slumping down again, comfortably curled up, and went to sleep. It was lying right atop the scorched patch on the carpet, Raoul noticed with glee. Maybe he could blame it on the dog? No, small chance of that, a dog would not play with fire, let alone try to smoke a cigarette. But he might still blame one of the servants, maybe. This was no exactly a decent thing to do, yet his mother wouldn't shout at a servant. It was highly unfair.

He stretched as well, a wide yawn straining his jaws. God, this was contagious. "I'm going to bed", he announced. "And I won't think of that whole Créon-and-his-wicked-cronies business until tomorrow morning." Heavens, what a glorious idea, just forgetting all those worries and crawling under a warm blanket, together with Christine!

What a pity that accursed Phantom was here to spoil it a bit.

"Right, sorry for bringing it up again." Meg got to her feet, also afflicted by the yawn the young dog had started.

"Never mind." Raoul was not surprised to see Christine yawn just as well. "Bedtime for all of us, I think."

Automatically his gaze shot over to the Phantom, who was the only one who had not moved at all, yet the way his jaw was clenched revealed that everybody's yawning was not leaving him entirely unaffected.

Well, he could remain sitting there all night, pretending he was not tired. Raoul did not care. He was going to lock the door tonight, and he was going to keep his sabre and revolver close at hand, just in case, but apart from that, he was going to get a decent night's sleep now. And he truly deserved it.


	38. IV Lust for Blood

**IV. Lust for Blood**

"Have the prisoners brought in, Adhemar."

"As you command, Master."

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Niobe asked doubtfully, her forehead furrowed into a frown.

"Do not question my authority, or you will live to regret it – if you will live at all."

"I'm the only other dominant around here", Niobe pointed out, then hastened to add, "Master."

"That you may be", Créon conceded, the gaze of his one pale eye directed over the bustling servants' heads, "but young Erik will be a worthy substitute for you. As soon as I have him with me, you may become disposable." The Master's voice was just as cold and impassive as usual.

For a moment Niobe's mouth opened and closed noiselessly, then she cleared her throat. Her bronze-skinned face suddenly looked paler than before. "He is weaker than me. His mind is only sub-dominant."

"He is inexperienced. Very much so. But he is very strong. That boy is a clear dominant, even though he is not aware of it."

From among the servants Aeternus emerged, his thumbs thrust behind his belt, and acknowledged his Master with an inclination of his head, then remained standing at Niobe's other side.

"Have you noticed what he must have done with this girl?" Créon continued. "He has moulded her mind to his will. She is his creature."

"Yet there is an interesting kind of backward-linking", Aeternus put in. "Something which should not be possible. On her side, the connection is very subtly, very intricately interwoven, while on his, the weaving seems less delicate, and much firmer. He must be aware of her at all times."

Very slowly, Créon turned his head to regard his vassal. "And how exactly do you pretend to know?"

"I was close enough to both of them to perceive the nature of their bond, Master."

"The connection is obvious, but the details are delicate", Créon stated. "I wish to have both of them at my disposal. They will make most interesting objects for study."

"What about the other two?" Niobe asked.

"They can be killed. I have no need for them."

Niobe's full lips quirked apart into an eager smile. "Let me kill the foolish boy, Master."

"The boy who thought his ridiculous weapon could harm me? It shall be as you wish."

"Raoul de Chagny", Aeternus provided.

"Why do you bother yourself with such detail, Aeternus?" If there was any emotion in Créon's rich, deep voice now, then it was impatience.

"Because sometimes it can be essential. It might interest you to hear, Master, that de Chagny and our friend are, in fact, mortal enemies."

Créon nodded slowly. "It might be of use to us later on."

"If there ever is a _later on_!" Niobe exclaimed. "If my pretty Erik has not just bolted!"

"He will come back." Créon's voice was the grating and grinding of a glacier's ice now. "I have seen it. And it is important that he comes of his own accord. This time, Niobe, you will keep my answer in mind, as I do not like repeating myself."

The beautiful woman swallowed. "Yes, Master."

"Master." Adhemar had returned, and the fanatic ardour in his eyes seemed brighter than the braziers' fires. "They are here."

As Créon turned and went to inspect his prisoners, the crowd of servants parted automatically. Adhemar had had them arranged in a line; they were all kneeing with their heads lowered, every one of them with at least two of the servants behind him, holding him down. There were five of them altogether, recently captured in the higher cellars of the Opera Populaire, all strong, healthy men and in their profession for some time. Men who would be missed.

Stopping right before them, Créon demanded, "Do you have names?"

"Gaston", muttered the one to the Master's right, around thirty years of age and with common brown hair cut short.

"Jacques." The name came out as a whimper; the lanky blond man with the freckled face seemed to be ducking under Créon's gaze like under a whiplash.

"Claude", the one in the middle grumbled almost defiantly. He was in his mid-forties and seemed to be the oldest.

"Serge." The man's voice was surprisingly soft for someone of his height. He had dishevelled dark curls framing his features.

There was a moment's hesitation before the last in the line answered, "Hulot." He was a pale, slender fellow whose eyes somehow seemed oddly unfocused, just as if he were constantly lost in a daydream.

For some time the Master studied all of them, then he pointed at Jacques, who cringed. "You." Aeternus nodded slowly to himself, just as if he had expected his choice.

Immediately the man was hauled out of the line by several of the servants, and Kalo, bowing clumsily to Créon as well as Adhemar, who stood supervising them, set a long knife to his throat. Jacques winced, and a wail fought its way through his clenched teeth.

"Kill him", Créon said quietly.

The servants hurried to follow his order, Kalo cutting the man's throat, another catching the blood in a bowl. Créon watched impassively, while Niobe's features bore a tiny smile. Aeternus's expression was stony, utterly unreadable. Only Adhemar, who was directing the men's actions, showed outward signs of displeasure, but of contempt and impatience more than anything else. The other prisoners flinched violently and covered their eyes, and there came muttered curses as well as murmured prayers from them, but nobody paid them any heed.

"Wait a few hours, then place the body where he surely will be found in the morning, and spread the blood nicely", Créon instructed. "Adhemar, you are personally responsible for this." The man with the claw scars bowed his head in acceptance. Then the Master turned and strode away along the line of braziers, motioning both Niobe and Aeternus to follow him. "This is how we can be sure young Erik will return", he said, and this time, there was a triumphant note in his cold, deep voice. "The boy will want to defend his domain, and he will not suffer anyone to kill his men, except himself, of course. His arrogance and pride will be of use to us, as well as his undoing."


	39. V One Love, one Lifetime

**V. One Love, one Lifetime**

"I'm worried, Raoul." Already in her lacy white nightshirt, Christine was sitting at the edge of the bed, her hairbrush in one hand, tugging at the blanket uncertainly.

Pulling on an overlarge white shirt to go with the loose-fitting pair of trousers he was already wearing, Raoul sighed. "Me too. But let us not think of it for tonight."

Christine nodded slowly, resuming her former activity of brushing her hair. "I will try."

"You don't sound too convinced."

"I can't stop worrying that easily." Once again she lowered the brush and looked at nothing in particular, her expression one of dismay.

Sitting down beside her, Raoul gently took the brush from her. "Here, let me do that." Smiling as she leaned against him, he carefully began the task of untangling her wild mane of dark curls. Altogether, he got the feeling that it was a losing battle, yet he enjoyed every minute of it, especially being able to have her close and inhale her scent deeply.

"And I always thought nobody could ever be stronger than him", Christine said softly, and it was not difficult to guess who she meant. "I used to believe nothing could harm him. He was in control all the time, and he knew what to do."

"Seems he has found his match, then", Raoul stated, almost with a twinge of jealousy noting the compassion in her voice. What had that loathsome creature ever done to deserve it?

"There was nothing he was afraid of, I think", Christine continued. "Except himself, what he was – whatever that is, exactly. But now… he's frightened. Very much so."

Raoul had to admit to himself that he had not noticed this at all. "Who wouldn't, in his situation?" he commented. "I would be afraid, too, if there was some scheming lunatic with a bunch of obedient worshippers after me."

"It's not for himself, though. It's for me he fears."

Raoul froze. "For _you_?" No, it couldn't be! She was in no danger at all! She had to be! "But… you won't be any further involved in this", he said urgently. "Promise me you won't."

"He thinks that they might try to get at me in order to get at him", Christine explained.

"Then out in the street he goes!" Raoul cried furiously. "I won't have him under my roof if he draws any danger to you!"

"No, Raoul, he stays. And it doesn't matter where he is. As long as they have me, they can track him by our… connection."

Raoul took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Christine was just worried, that was all. And tired. She was imagining things. "You can't be sure", he said. "How would you know? Besides, you're worrying yourself too much."

"_He_ is sure. And if anyone knows, he does."

"Now look here, darling", Raoul reasoned, "you know how taken with you he is. That on top of his being… well, somewhat deranged, and he's getting paranoid at even the slightest suggestion that you might be in danger." Not entirely convincing, but it was worth the try.

"Would you mind taking me seriously, for a change?" Christine snapped, making Raoul drop the brush in surprise. "I'm not some silly little sissy scared out of her wits! And he isn't, either!"

"Sorry", Raoul murmured, pulling her towards him to place a kiss on her cheek. He did not want her to be upset, yet it annoyed him to a certain extent that she would rather believe that Phantom friend of hers than him.

"I do hope you are", Christine answered haughtily, but then she twisted around in his arms and hugged him tight. "I'm so sorry, Raoul. I really shouldn't be that mean to you."

"That's alright", he muttered, enjoying the scent of her hair. Even had he wanted to, he was utterly unable to be angry at her.

"I have no idea what suddenly got into me", she confessed. "It felt like… I don't know. Like a sudden flaring-up of temper." She laughed uncertainly. "Strange. I don't do that normally."

"That's alright, love, really", Raoul assured her. "You're tired, and you've had quite a day. Tomorrow you'll feel better."

"Yes. Tomorrow." To Raoul, she did not sound as convinced as he would have liked her to sound, but luckily the glint in her dark eyes returned soon. "Will you finish brushing me now, so we can go to bed?"

"With pleasure", Raoul laughed, resuming his enjoyable battle with her hair. For once, it distracted him from all the dark thoughts lurking in the recesses of his mind. "Why do you brush your hair at all? As soon as you lie in bed, it won't be two minutes until it's all messed up again."

"Because you keep lying on it", Christine claimed, kissing the tip of his nose.

"I don't", he protested.

"You do! All the time!"

"And you lie on mine!" Raoul accused her, with an exaggerated pout. "So, I think I'm done for now."

"Not diligent enough", she reproached him teasingly.

"No, and I don't mind, because it's bedtime for you. I'll brush you all afternoon tomorrow, if you want me to." Yawning hugely, he crawled under the covers and held them up for Christine to join him, dropping the hairbrush onto the nightstand. "But no more work tonight."

"Alright, no more work, my love." Christine snuggled in beside him. "Good night, sweetheart."

"I love you", he whispered to her. She knew, of course, but he would never get tired of telling her, over and over again.

"I love you too, Raoul." One of her arms came to rest across his waist. "And you know what? This is what our married life will be like, won't it? Us going to bed after a long day, discussing a few things while you brush my hair, and then we hold each other tight, and you tell me you love me, and I tell you the same. Every night. For all of our lives." She snaked her other arm under the back of his neck, and he rolled onto his side to be closer to her. "That's all I really want, Raoul."

Refraining from a naughty comment about what else she might eventually want, he wrapped his arms around her as tightly as he could, making her gasp. "I'll never let you go", he promised.

For some time they just lay beside each other in silence, as close as they could be. Then Christine yawned softly and repeated, sleepily, "Good night, then."

"We haven't discussed breakfast yet", it occurred to Raoul.

"You can think of that tomorrow."

"Good point. I'll have all night to dream up what I'll take." And he really hoped he would only dream of his breakfast.


	40. VI Learn to be lonely

**VI. Learn to be lonely**

"Yes, think of your breakfast", the Phantom muttered angrily. "That might not strain your scant intellect overmuch." With a silent snarl at the bedroom door he had been leaning against, listening, he turned and strode down the stairs, back to the living room, yet careful not to make a noise. Curse the slimy little imbecile! Curse him for stealing Christine's affection!

At least what he had overheard had not sounded like any kind of intimacy fit to truly make him jealous. No, the fool probably wasn't able to do anything of the like. The Phantom snorted disdainfully. Brushing her hair instead of leaping onto her to ravish her greedily! The idiot, the complete idiot!

But on the other hand… he would readily brush Christine's hair if she asked him to, and restrain himself if she wanted him to.

Yet he would get her to asking, no, _begging_ him for more soon after he began to involve himself with her rich dark curls! The time would come when she would crave for his touch as desperately as a drowning man trying to reach a rafter. _His_ time would come.

If he could only believe in this!

Back at the living room, he cast himself down upon the sofa. The small dog lying curled up on the carpet gave a funny little snort, but did not stir. Heavens and Hell be equally damned, he hated the irony of this! Why did Christine have to rescue him from Créon's clutches only to take him to that accursed boy's house? And why did she have to be mooning over the idiot all the time while he was watching? Of course, she had almost fussed over him, very much concerned that he might have suffered some severe damage at Créon's hands, but every loving look she cast her Raoul was one too many. How he yearned to place his fingers around the brainless young fool's neck and strangle him!

Yet every hurt he caused the boy would be a hurt to Christine, as well.

Biting back the sob welling up in his throat, the Phantom rolled over so he lay on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. This was no time for grief. He needed to think now. And the only feeling he could currently afford to harbour was hatred.

After some time spent lying utterly still and in silence, he sat up and raked his hands through his hair. There were some questions easy enough to answer, and some to which he knew the answer after some thought, but there were also those to which he would yet have to find an answer.

Créon, Satan hang him by his entrails, had still not told him what he really was, and why he needed him, and there was no way of prying out the answer by simply lying there and thinking. He might just have managed to figure a few things out, but this, the most burning question of them all, was not among them.

Hell consume itself! Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why couldn't _everyone_ just leave him alone?

There were some other things he was pretty certain of by now, but of which he would need proof first. Yet he would have to wait with it until tomorrow.

At least he was once again a step ahead of the others. Make that two, in the case of the stupid fop boy.

He wanted Christine here, with him on the sofa, very close to him preferably. Her arms around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder… He wanted to hold her until she fell asleep, and then still keep her in his arms, keep her safe from all the world. Why did she have to go with that boy? How could that wretch of a stuffed rooster ever protect her?

How could he himself ever protect her, he thought bitterly. Unless, of course, he learned what he clearly needed to learn.

But this would have to wait until the morning.

He still felt her at the edge of his consciousness, of course, but he was reluctant to reach out to make closer contact. After the encounter with Créon and Niobe, his mind felt dirty, soiled, and he did not want to touch her in this state.

He wondered if he should try to catch some sleep, but did not dare to, although he assumed that his worries were irrational, and that nobody would have followed them here. Still, he had better stay awake.

Getting to his feet, he walked over to where he had left his leather scrip, leaning against the wall, and took out inkbottle and quill and some writing paper. He might as well keep himself busy while he had to wait idly until he could resume his train of thought.

This was a time for wrath, then.

A time for a wrath dark and glorious.

Unscrewing the bottle while sitting down again, he dipped the quill into it, but then paused for a moment with it poised above the paper, ready to write, as he closed his eyes. The music was there, as always, strong and passionate and dark.

A voice spoke in his memory, a cold, deep voice coming from the recesses of his mind like from a yawning abyss. _"There is much hate in you. Much pain. The time will come when it will tear you apart, unless you learn how to contain it."_

"You are wrong", he whispered, his hand clenching around the quill. "It will be _you_ who will be torn apart."

He opened his eyes again, and the quill began scratching over the paper.

The requiem would not be his own, after all.

_Dies irae, dies illa…_

A smile of grim satisfaction stole onto his lips at this sweet, sweet thought.

_Solvet__ saeclum in favilla…_

Oh, how much he longed for that!

He did not write out the entire score immediately, but sketched the motifs and melodies first, sometimes with a hint of accompaniment, and in the order they came to his mind.

This was the only way of truly controlling his wrath he knew, by channelling it into music and letting it flow in his head. The quill travelled over the paper quickly, in accord with his quiet rage, his silent fury.

_Mors__ stupebit et natura  
Cum resurget creatura  
Iudicanti responsura…_

Hell, this felt so perfectly _good_! He could not have stopped now anymore, even if he had wanted to. Occasionally he paused to brush his hair out of his eyes, but never for longer than a moment's time. His music was his strength, his comfort.

His only comfort, when even Christine had deserted him.

Christine… He felt so alone, so hollow, more alone than he had ever felt before. He had lost her, and still he clung on desperately, hoping where every hope was lost.

_Ne__ me perdas illa die…_

May you be confounded forever, Créon, but you might just have been right.

All my own fault, he told himself, digging the fingernails of his left hand into the whitened knuckles of his clenched right. All my own fault. I lied to her. I betrayed her. I gave her pain.

_Ingemisco__ tamquam reus  
Culpa rubet vultus meus…_

He froze, the quill slipping from his suddenly limp fingers.

_Culpa rubet vultus meus…_

Slowly, very slowly, his hand wandered up to his face, and slowly, very slowly, he removed his mask and set it down upon the table. Hesitatingly, he reached up again, running his fingers over the uneven scars on the right side of his face, feeling his burned flesh.

_Culpa rubet vultus meus…_

No, it had been nothing but a lie! A filthy lie!

_A fallen angel, and far from Heaven…_

A damn filthy lie!

_Culpa rubet vultus meus…_

No. He did not believe it, not one bit of it! He was no angel. There was no God, and there were no angels. And Créon was mad. He was no angel. He had never been one, and he never would. All he was… was a monster, a creature of darkness, a plague from Hell, a curse set loose upon this world, a furious, hateful demon…

But was a demon not the same as a fallen angel?

_Culpa rubet vultus meus…_

No, this was not the guilt he had laden upon himself. There was plenty of guilt after all those years, but not that. Not that. He had not been cast out into this cold, careless world because he had rebelled against God.

Why else, then? Why else?

It was then that he realized that he was no longer alone with the sleeping dog. There was somebody behind him, watching him.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling again slowly, he put his mask back on, and when he spoke, his voice was cold and emotionless once more. "Why don't you go back to bed?"

There were soft footsteps behind him, and then a small, slender hand shyly touched his shoulder. "You should not be alone", a voice whispered from behind him.

The Phantom had to restrain himself not to laugh out loud with bitterness. "Do not be a fool. Alone is what I always am. I have learned to, a long time ago."


	41. VII Black Despair

**VII. Black Despair**

"Adhemar, present the remaining prisoners."

Once again, Gaston was pushed to his knees roughly before a towering shape in black robes, a tall man with shoulder-length dark hair and a scrap of cloth tied around his head, covering the place where his right eye should have been. Swarthy men were all around him, holding him down, and he could not see who the one addressed as Adhemar was. From the corner of his eye, he could glimpse Claude beside him, with his head lowered, and Serge at his other side, trying to appear as upright as possible. Then the man's scrutinizing gaze turned upon him, and all he felt was cold, and every thought left him.

When the man turned his attention from him at last and warmth returned to his limbs, the first breath he took felt like a breath of new life, like being born again. The burning charcoals on the lines of braziers seemed so much brighter suddenly, every grain of dust on the rough stone floor so much clearer. When he was hauled up again, he was almost glad for the pain. It showed him that he was still alive.

He and his remaining three companions were thrown into a corner, where they were left lying, guarded by a few of those swarthy men taking their posts nearby. Getting up to his hands and knees with some difficulty, Gaston crawled over to the wall, where he slumped down, his arms wrapped around himself. Serge followed, spitting out a mouthful of blood. As so often, he said nothing, but all muscles in his face seemed clenched, a grimace hewn from marble, and his green eyes shone strangely in the shadows.

"Curse him", Gaston muttered, his eyes following the men and women in grey, brown and black rags walking past them, going about their chores – whatever it was they were doing – so close, and yet so distant, like a surreal vision, a dream. He wanted to beat his head against the wall until he woke up, or else was senseless, but felt too weak for it. "Curse the bloody Phantom! That swine of an Opera Ghost! That criminal! That lunatic! That… that…" He spluttered himself into silence.

Scrubbing back his short sweaty curls, Serge spoke, slowly and softly as always. "Not the Phantom."

"Not…" Gaston stared at him. "Are you crazy? That bloke was the Phantom if I ever saw one!" One of their guards cast a glance at him, and he lowered his voice to a hiss – which felt better anyway; his throat was so dry. "And he's taking revenge!"

"No", Serge insisted. "This man is not the Phantom."

Gaston groaned and massaged his left elbow, which he had seemingly hurt horribly, though he did not quite recall the occasion. "How do you want to know?" he wheezed. God, his throat was sore!

"I've seen him. Once when on duty up in the flies. Shortly after Buquet died. He stood right opposite me. Only some twelve feet away. He just stood. And looked at me." If that was possible, Serge lowered his voice even further. "He wore a black cloak and a mask. A peculiar mask, covering only half of his face. For a moment we just stood and looked at each other. Then I nodded at him. Like at any other I would meet up in the flies. And he nodded at me, too. More like a small bow, actually, a very small bow. Then I looked down for a moment, because I thought I heard something. And when I looked again, he was gone."

Surprised, Gaston regarded his fellow stagehand from the side. This was the longest narrative he had ever heard from Serge. "You mean to say that you would… recognize him?"

Serge nodded silently.

"That makes things clear to me", a husky voice suddenly spoke up from Gaston's other side, and despite his usual calm he winced at the sound. After being taken hostage, for whatever reason and to whatever purpose, and witnessing how one of his colleagues had been murdered, most of his self-control had dissipated quietly, leaving him a nervous, trembling wretch. To his relief, it was only Claude, who had apparently crept up beside him and listened to their conversation. "Because I have wondered", the rough-faced, stocky man continued, "what they could possibly be after. And now, with what Serge says, and with what I've overheard… I can't be sure, of course, but I think they want to get someone to come to them. They want poor Jacques's body to be found. They want it to be known that they are there." His brow furrowed in thought. "Or else, they want to blame it on someone."

"The Phantom", Gaston said. "Who would kill anyone here, apart from the Phantom?"

"Exactly", Claude agreed. "Which means that the Phantom, with all the trouble he's in for anyway, would want to exculpate himself at least from this murder, wouldn't he? And maybe even get the chance of blaming some of his deeds on somebody else. So he'll go looking for them. And since he is probably the only one who knows his way around in the cellars, he would be the only one to find them… and to find us."

Frowning into the fire of one of the braziers, Gaston mentally repeated this all to himself. It was a far-fetched theory somehow, but it made sense. It made perfect sense. And this was what scared him.

Hulot was crouching off to the side, with his finger drawing shapes into the dust.

"He may be our only hope", Serge muttered.

"Yes", Claude said. "We must hope that he'll come and find us, and that he'll find us soon."

Gaston swallowed. There was something constricting his throat, something painful, and breathing suddenly was difficult. Was this what having a lump in one's throat felt like? He assumed so. And this was a particularly painful one. Should their lives really depend on someone like the Phantom now, someone who had terrorized the Opera House for years? He did not want them to. For all his life, ever since his father's old employer, a rich man of noble birth, had thrown them out, it had seemed to him that the only one he could truly trust was himself, and that he depended on nobody but himself now. His father had been a drunkard, which had been the reason for his former lord to get rid of the bothersome servant and his family, and Gaston had been thirteen years old when he had been forced to keep his family alive, doing all kinds of work, whatever he had been able to get. He still missed the large, sprawling manor in the countryside, the place where he had grown up, but the Opera Populaire was some comfort, and never had he felt as much at home in a place as he did now since they had been forced to leave the nobleman's service, although there had been the constant and growing dread of this Ghost, of what lurked in the shadows. But he had kept himself upright and fought down his fears; after all, the only one he truly trusted was himself, so he could not give in. No, he could never give in. Not even now.

And he would not hope to be rescued by the only one he had ever feared. "Or we could try to escape", he said, as softly and at the same time as firmly as he could.

Serge sighed, awkwardly rubbing a bruised cheek. "How?"

"We must find a way", Gaston insisted. "We must!" And as soon as possible, because otherwise he would go mad, not able to help himself… and somebody else might die.

Hulot. They would kill Hulot next. Jacques had shown weakness by showing his fear, and they had killed him. Hulot showed weakness by being thoughtless, by dreaming away and letting his mind wander. It was not that fear or anything else made him do it; he always did it. He was a constant dreamer. But people often judged him to be feeble-minded when they knew him not well enough, and this impression would be enough for that man, whoever he was, to have Hulot killed next.

And if Hulot died, Gaston would never forgive himself, even though it would not be his fault. Hulot was a friend, just like Serge was. Hulot was one of the few friends he had. Like Serge, Hulot did not speak much, and many of the other stagehands found his clumsiness annoying, but for Gaston, this one particular colleague, the very same Jean Hulot who most of the others called an idiot, was oddly likable in a way he did not quite understand. Hulot was so gentle, so… harmless. He would not even hurt a mosquito about to sting him. Therefore, Gaston reasoned, it was not right to hurt Hulot.

And he would not suffer to let anything happen to his friend.

"There might be a way", Claude whispered. "A way to save at least some of us, and to get help. It's risky, very risky in fact, but it might work."

"What?" Gaston demanded. Serge remained silent, but the same question was written in his oddly serene green eyes.

"Listen." Claude's voice was barely audible, and his eyes constantly darted towards the men guarding them, as well as to those passing them by, no matter if seemingly with a purpose or without. "Can you two run?"

"I can", Gaston said, and Serge gave an affirmative nod. "And Hulot can, too", Gaston added.

"Good. On my signal, you run. You make for the door as fast as you can. Is that understood?"

Serge frowned. "This is never going to work", he muttered.

"It's our only chance of escaping on our own", Claude insisted. "It's not that far to the exit, and there are not too many people in our way. At least one of you should make it out. And then you can run and hide somewhere, and try to find your way back up."

"What about you?" Gaston asked.

Claude shrugged. "I'll do my best to distract them."

"We can't leave you behind!" Gaston protested in a hiss, giving one of their guards who was looking at him a hateful glare.

"One of us will have to distract them", Claude replied. "And this will be me."

"I don't want to leave you here." Gaston would not give up so soon. Though he would rather leave Claude than Hulot, he thought, although he hated himself for thinking in such a way.

"_You must_." Claude's hard face was determined. "I wouldn't make it anyway; I think I've spread my ankle."

Serge nodded slowly, and the subject was decided. When Serge, after thorough consideration, agreed to something important, it was hardly possible to change his decision. Reluctantly, Gaston nodded as well.

He cast a glance at Hulot. The tall, pale man was still busy drawing into the dust at his feet, seemingly unaware of his dark hair hanging into his face as well as of the others' whispering together. Gaston would have to tell him, and he only hoped that Hulot would be ready to do whatever he needed to do; his friend could be difficult to convince of something's necessity sometimes.

Again he felt how something constricted his throat. They might not make it, he knew it. But it was their only chance.

A man went past them, grey-haired but with a swift, determined stride. From his fine black cloak, it was easy enough to tell that he belonged to those in charge here. Pausing for a moment to regard the prisoners, the unsteady, flickering light illumined a face that was smashed in at the right side, as if from a very forceful blow. Involuntarily, Gaston shivered. Who could wreak such distraction on a man's features, and how?

"Very well", Claude said with surprising calm, "this is what we'll do." As he explained, it seemed to Gaston that his desperation even increased.


	42. VIII Sweet Seduction

**VIII. Sweet Seduction**

"You need some sleep", Meg insisted stubbornly. "I know you do."

"I don't", the Phantom said coldly.

He was being irrational. Did he really think that admitting he was tired was showing weakness? And after what she and the others had seen, after rescuing him from his enemies' clutches, was he still unwilling to admit weakness? There was no reason – except his pride.

Curse his pride. "Everybody has to sleep", Meg explained patiently, her hand still resting on his shoulder, feeling the rough fabric of his linen shirt. Carefully, she shifted it slightly, tracing the outline of his collarbone.

He gave a derisive snort. "If you want to fondle me, then don't look for excuses. Just goddamn do it. Hell knows I could use some distraction right now."

Immediately Meg withdrew her hand, feeling the blush rising in her cheeks. Raoul had complained about the Phantom having no manners, and she now found that she could see his point. No manners indeed! "If you want to be snuggled, then you might at least ask nicely", she said haughtily. "But if you're after pawing, I'm afraid you'll have to find yourself somebody else."

At once he was on his feet, and Meg was surprised at how quickly he could walk around the sofa, and how soon he was standing right opposite her, facing her. His eyes were pools of frozen fire. "I usually find", he said softly, "that I get what I want."

Meg wanted to give him an angry reply, yet it was difficult to keep her thoughts together when he was so close, radiating more heat than the fire, which was burning down in the open fireplace, shimmering off his mask. With the shadows playing on his features, he looked absolutely stunning.

Christine might really have warned her about this.

But on the other hand, she had seen him before tonight. She should be prepared by now.

His knowing little grin made her fingers itch to slap him, at the same time as become tangled in his hair. Heavens, he was too good-looking to be allowed, and she could have kicked him for it!

She wanted to throw a snappish remark at him, just anything that came to her mind, but she never had the chance, for he chose to kiss her at precisely that moment. At first she wanted to kick him in the shin to make him let her go, but all her resistance dissolved into nothingness as he pulled her close, and all she really wanted to and could do was answering his kiss. Occasionally she would brush against the edge of his mask, right above his upper lip, as he shifted his head against her, a clear reminder of who he was, but for now, she did not care. Letting one hand slowly travel up along his spine, she enjoyed with closed eyes how he nibbled her lower lip and tugged at it gently with his teeth, only to let their lips meet again a moment later. Her other arm lay around his waist for support, clinging to him in order to stay upright and not to swoon with pleasure.

When they broke apart, they were both breathless, and Meg rested her head against him as he fought for air, feeling the heaving of his chest. "Where did you learn that?" she muttered. Surely he couldn't have been just acting on instinct?

His chuckle made his ribcage vibrate for a moment under her cheek. "From Christine, I assume."

From _Christine_? It was difficult imagining her friend doing something as forward as kissing anyone, let alone the Phantom. Well, she would certainly have kissed Raoul a few times until now, but the Phantom… What had those two been doing down in the cellars? At once Meg felt a twinge of jealousy towards her friend. While she herself had never had as much as a simple, common suitor, there were two men absolutely devoted to Christine, two who would doubtlessly die for her without hesitation. It was hardly fair.

And since Christine could not possibly keep both of them to herself, it would be only right if one of them was left for Meg.

Meg knew it was not that easy, though. She knew that the situation had been far from pleasant for her friend, just as far as the Phantom was from any regular suitor.

What if it had not been for Raoul? Meg wondered. Would Christine have accepted the Phantom, then? It was certainly difficult to resist someone who could trace the outlines of one's lips with the tip of his tongue in such a seductive way…

No, she was just far too taken with him, she scolded herself, mooning over him when there were more sensible things to do. Her mother would never approve, especially not of her in his arms, snuggling against him, and in nothing more than a nightshirt borrowed from Christine.

But there was no need for her mother to find out.

He was stroking her hair, threading his fingers into it, and she reached up to tangle her own in the soft curls at the back of his head. His hair was dishevelled and untidy, but still felt astoundingly silky.

There was nothing wrong with being taken with him. Just a little bit.

"Did I give you any reason to trust me?" he whispered, his breath tickling her ear.

"My mother does", she answered, "and so does Christine."

She felt him stiffen and immediately knew that mentioning her friend had been a mistake. "Oh, does she?" he growled, his voice at once throaty and rough.

"Well… she…" Meg hesitated. The truth was that she didn't know. It was hard to tell, even from what she had heard from Christine. "In a way", she replied finally. "Because… I don't know. But she still calls you Angel sometimes." Probably accidentally, but no need to mention _that_.

Strangely, this did not seem to have the desired effect at all. Instead of relaxing, it rather appeared to her that he tensed even more. Why would he? She did not understand. "And it was her who guided us when we…" When we saved you, she had meant to say, but he would not like to hear it put like that, although it was true. "When we found you", she finished instead. "Well, most of the time."

"Most of the time?" he repeated. "What about the rest, then?"

"Me", she whispered simply, caressing his back. Why did he have to be so tense all the time? He was being held; what more did he want? Well, be held by Christine, probably. It gave her a little stab of jealousy.

"You? How?"

"Because I happened to know the secret passage leading to that room Christine described", she explained. Heavens, why couldn't he just relax? Meg had to struggle hard against a growing urge to poke him. "Christine had some kind of… vision, something like that. I don't know. Anyway, she described this place, and I knew where it was, because I'd been there when first seeing those eyes… that man Lionel." She shuddered slightly at the memory, and he pulled her closer. At least that. "So I led the way to the entrance." He seemed slightly less tense now, but only slightly. "You know about that vision thing, don't you?"

At first she thought that he would not answer, but then he said, his voice almost inaudible, "It is a kind of mental connection. It seemed that I was… weakened enough for her to… dominate it so much that she could see through my eyes for a moment."

Resuming her caress, Meg was surprised that he would admit that much. He had asked her if she had any reason to trust him, but now she wondered what reason exactly _he_ had to trust _her_. Because she had helped Christine to rescue him, or because of her mother, or for some other reason? She could not be sure.

And she could not be sure if he really trusted her at all, of course.

As she wrapped her arms around him tighter, enjoying his warmth, he winced, and she let go immediately. "What is it?"

"Nothing", he murmured dismissively, pulling her back into his arms.

But she insisted. "Did I hurt you or something?" Or was he just being complicated again?

"No… It's just a bruise, that's all. Nothing serious."

Of course. She had seen them, after all, the signs of his treatment among those who now occupied the cellars. "You need someone to clean those cuts", she said. There was not much she would be able to do about it, yet she would do what she could. After all, he was a friend – or at least she wanted him to be one.

And the mere idea of touching his bare skin sent an indecently tingly feeling through her body.

"I've taken care of this", he declined, just like Christine had predicted earlier on. "But thank you."

"And you should really get some sleep", she continued her ministrations. Did he want to stay awake all night, or what? "You're safe here."

He sighed softly, but did not answer.

"Now listen here", Meg suggested, feeling the blush creep onto her cheeks, "my bed is quite spacious actually, and I thought you might…well… Don't get me wrong, I'm not after anything… improper… it's just…" Drawing a deep breath, she told him the truth. "I'm afraid, and I can't sleep because I see that man's eye in the shadows everywhere, staring at me, and… if you say no now, I'll just stay with you down here and sleep on the sofa, and I'll force you to hold my hand", she finished determinedly. Most men she knew had the habit of being protective towards women, and this particular one very much so. "Please?"

He chuckled into her hair softly, making her want to pinch him, but only a little bit, because she was so glad for his company. "Aren't you a bit too old for this, little one?" he teased her.

"_No_", she said firmly, poking him in the ribs, but carefully avoiding the place where he seemed to be so badly bruised.

"And what exactly makes you think that I'm a virtuous man?" She did not see his face, but the broad grin was evident in his voice.

"Because Christine says you've never taken advantage of her. Not even when you let her sleep in your bed."

Loosening her grip on him, he kissed her brow gently. "She is right, of course."


	43. IX To guard you and to guide you

**IX. To guard you and to guide you**

Stretched out on his back, the Phantom gazed up at the dark ceiling. He felt how his mind's defences were slowly building up again, and it was a painful process, especially since he now sensed that there was… something… left behind. There was something in his head, something strange, something that did not belong there. But he felt too weak still to purge his mind of it.

Snuggled against him warmly, Meg was fast asleep, her head bedded on his shoulder, one hand on the pillow beside and partially below it; the other hand rested on his chest. Her calm, regular breath tickled the side of his neck.

What made her trust him like this, he asked himself. Why would she seek his proximity? Because he was the only one in the house apart from Christine and Raoul, probably, and those two – he gritted his teeth – were busy with each other. So he was the only one left.

But all the same, nothing forced her to be that close to him. And if he was just a last resort, why had she then kissed him earlier on? It seemed that the girl truly liked him.

Funny, that. Why should she like him? Because she hardly knew him, probably, and because she found his wearing a black, sweeping cloak and a mask and living in the vaults of the Opera House romantic. Silly girl. She would surely turn away from him as soon as she got to know him any better. Just like Christine.

But still, he could not deny that he was fond of her. She was Claire Giry's daughter, after all, and she reminded him so much of her mother. And she trusted him, at least at the moment, and sought his protection.

Covering her hand resting on his chest with his own, he marvelled at how small and slender her fingers were, how slim her wrist. His own hands were crude paws, compared to hers.

He had felt the same way about Christine, he remembered; she had seemed just as fragile to him, maybe even more so. So very much calling for protection, so irresistibly making him want to keep an eye on them always, or better yet, to keep his arms around them. Especially around Christine, of course.

But if he could not have _her_ here with him, Meg was pleasant enough company, especially when lying partly over him, so that he could feel a rather interesting part of her anatomy against his body. And she was quite gifted in that area; he had noticed it before, of course. After all, his gaze had a tendency to wander down to a pretty girl's cleavage sooner or later – rather sooner than later, to be honest.

Despite his aching mind, he grinned up into the darkness above him. All the times he had spent ogling the pretty girls on stage greedily, having nothing better to do… Sometimes he seriously regretted that the old washrooms weren't regularly used anymore. There was a new one now, one he had often enough tried to gain access to in some way, but until now, he had not managed to, which annoyed him to no end. Not that it only was about getting a look at the girls; everything somehow managing to be an obstacle to him in his own Opera House was a point of annoyance to him. And he would yet gain access to that accursed new washroom, he would! No wall in the Opera Populaire had a right to bar him out. Besides, he thought as his grin broadened, he was missing the experience.

It was nothing compared to getting a look into Christine's changing rooms, though. Or to the real thing, of course. Getting Christine out of her corset had absolutely been _the_ experience of his entire lifetime, at least as far as his love life was concerned. And seeing her in only her thin shift afterwards, innocently sprawled on his bed, with her lovely dark locks spread out around her… It had taken all the self-control he possessed not to just climb in beside her and rip the thin fabric off her.

Hell, how he wanted her! He pulled Meg as close to him as he could get her, and she unconsciously arched her back in her sleep and pressed herself against him, which he noted with a cultivated little smirk, but she was just no true substitute for Christine, even if she happened to possess more generous curves than her friend. But generous curves just was not everything. Of course, they were always pleasant to look at, but if the rest of the girl was ugly, or if she was stupid as an empty shell, of what use was an ample bosom to him, then? It might still serve as a pillow, but the whole rest of the girl being useless would spoil it a bit.

And a too ample bosom was no good, either. He wondered why women would not understand this. They always thought more was better, and he had often enough realized that some chorus girl or ballerina had just stuffed handkerchiefs or stockings down the bodice of her dress, thereby spoiling her appearance. Hell, some of them thought getting stuffed until they looked as if they were about to keel forward and fall flat on their faces from the weight was attractive! They had no idea, no damn idea.

There was still the question of the nice legs, and of the delightful bottom. Again he grinned. Meg had a backside truly made for pinching it, though pinching was far below his level.

To Hell with it, perceiving all those marvellous little details around him while not being able to fully indulge in them was enough to drive a man insane!

Of course, if he would pinch at all, he would prefer to pinch Christine's lovely hindquarters. He pictured himself with her, one arm wrapped around her slender waist, holding her close, while a curious hand wandered down to her well-rounded backside to apply a naughty little pinch. Would she squeak, and snuggle against him closer to escape his wicked hand? Or would she rather slap it away, like Claire had usually done when he had playfully teased her with something like that? Or simply giggle and pinch him right back?

The mere idea of a woman pinching him was outrageous, of course, yet he was sure he would suffer Christine to do so. Just as he would gladly allow her to smack his bottom, as Claire had done a few times when they were playfully wrestling, many years ago. She would not dare to do it now, of course.

Which was a pity somehow, he thought with a soft chuckle to himself; their games had been quite funny.

But no, he could not have anyone smack him. It would get into serious conflict with his dignity, and he could not afford that.

Oh well… He would be quite ready to allow Christine to interfere with his dignity as much as she wished, as long as they were alone when she did so. Actually, he would enjoy her messing up his hair, tickling and pinching him, climbing and bouncing around on top of him, feeding him sweets, hitting him over the head with a pillow or throwing it at him – as long as this was done in bed or not far from it, anyway – or whatever else might come to her sweet little mind.

Or splashing through the water after each other, laughing and shouting and trying to empty a bucket over each other's head. He had played that game with Claire, a long time ago, but it had been an innocent game, then. With Christine, it would be immensely erotic… especially if she would not be wearing much.

The mere thought of Christine getting out of her clothes… His hand clenched around Meg's before he caught himself, but luckily the girl only gave a sigh and slept on peacefully. He would very much enjoy helping her out of her things, just as he had enjoyed undoing her corset. Only that she would be awake, then, and positively purr with pleasure while he hungrily ravished her…

His trousers began to feel quite confining suddenly.

There came a soft, almost timid knock at the door, and he muttered a curse. This was not Christine; he would have felt it if she were there. Which left only one person.

Slowly, very slowly, the door opened a fraction, and Raoul poked his head in, blinking into the darkness, scanning the room. What was the idiot doing here? "Get lost", the Phantom growled, though without much enthusiasm. Why did that moron have to disturb him while he was peacefully contemplating women's anatomy?

"Could I have a word, perhaps?" Raoul whispered, though raising his eyebrows at seeing the Phantom in the same bed as Meg.

That annoying little snotrag! But he might as well go and find out what he wanted – or else that slimy monkey would go and complain about him to Christine. "Wait outside", he muttered. Now this had better be important, or else the fop was going to suffer for the interruption!

Raoul eyed him doubtfully, but then nodded, retreated and closed the door behind him softly once more. At least he understood what he was told. Scowling, the Phantom now set himself to the task of entangling his limbs from Meg's without waking her up. It was not easy, especially since he was reluctant to use any mind-tricks on her as yet. He just felt too filthy from Créon and Niobe's attentions to touch anyone mentally. Well, maybe Raoul could be used to find some way to wipe his mind clean… but no, the boy would only make it worse with his sliminess.

Climbing over Meg's sleeping form, the Phantom was careful not to touch her. Still the girl was breathing evenly, and a little smile lingered on her lips as she rolled over and hugged the pillow. For a moment he remained standing beside the bed, watching her, but he could be sure she was asleep. So he tugged the blanket over her, and then, with a last glance at the girl, made his way to the door.

Raoul was expecting him outside in the corridor, leaning against the wall and trying to appear at his ease. His sandy-coloured hair was tousled, and he was wearing a loose white shirt and matching trousers, probably his usual attire for bed. And his neck looked just as inviting for a rope as always. "There you are at last", he stated.

"Well spotted", the Phantom sneered.

The silly boy glared at him. "What are you doing in Meg's room?"

"None of your business", the Phantom replied coldly. Impertinent little slug, that young vicomte. "And what is Christine doing in yours?"

"She is my fiancée", Raoul answered defiantly. "And you stay away from her! She has every right to sleep in my bed. And I can do with her whatever I want. Feel free to guess."

What an utterly foul thing to imagine! "Oh, she was probably explaining to you about the bees and the birds, eh?" Using an axe on the idiot's head would be so perfectly marvellous! "But it was hopeless, because your belief in the stork won't be shattered too soon."

"You watch your tongue with me in my house!" Raoul hissed.

"Make me", the Phantom answered calmly. Seeing the boy in a helpless fury was at least a slight comfort. "What have you come for?"

"To ask you something."

"Really? Like what you do with a girl once you have her in your bed? Come back when you're older, kid."

"You – watch – your – filthy – tongue!" Raoul snarled, clenching his fists.

"We already discussed that, thank you", the Phantom replied coolly. "Can we get to business?"

"Bloody jerk", Raoul muttered angrily, and the Phantom smirked at that. The boy would have to work on his insults, too. And he would have to learn how to keep his face straight when somebody was smirking at him.

"Well?" the Phantom asked lazily. "Is this all you wanted me to hear? I will go back to bed, then, if you'll excuse me."

"Wait", Raoul said immediately. So the fop _did_ want something, after all. "I wanted to have a word with you, about the girls."

The Phantom chose just to raise his eyebrows at him, in a way of which he knew for certain that Claire found it irritating.

"It's…" Raoul hesitated and frowned; so the eyebrow-raising seemed to work on him just as well – if the boy was able to see clearly enough in the darkness, that was. "I want you to promise me something: Whatever happens, the girls won't be involved."

"And what, precisely, do you mean by this, if I may ask?" the Phantom inquired. Some childish foolishness certainly, what else?

"This whole business with those Lost Ones, or whatever you call them. I don't want the girls to have anything to do with all that." There was a note of urgency in Raoul's voice; the boy was clearly worried.

"I don't want them to come to any harm, either." Really, what was the young fool thinking? That he would sacrifice Christine to them? It was such a pity that people could not be flogged publicly for pure stupidity.

"Good." The silly boy actually smiled. "It seems we can reach some kind of agreement, then."

I'd hate to, the Phantom thought, yet aloud he said, "Very well. On which terms?"

"That we'll keep them out of this whole Créon business", Raoul replied promptly. "We'll make sure they won't even have the chance to get involved. This is men's business."

"Precisely the reason why I mean to deal with Créon alone", the Phantom remarked scathingly. That insolent little vicomte poking his nose into his business was the very last thing he needed!

"I'm there to help", Raoul said, and only the angry little twitch of his lips showed that he had recognized the Phantom's insult as one. "Whatever troubles Christine troubles me. Her problems are my problems. I'll do what I can, even if I don't know anything about all that mind-reading magic and stuff."

"No magic, kid", the Phantom said wearily. That boy would expect him to wear a pointy hat next, like the wizards in fairy tales and legends!

"Whatever", Raoul insisted. "Anyhow, I don't think it's quite natural. I don't think it should be allowed. And that Créon certainly shouldn't be allowed. Trust me, I want him gone just as much as you do."

And how exactly did the boy want to know how much the Phantom wanted Créon gone? But the Phantom did not comment on it. There was something else which had caught his full attention. "You think it shouldn't be allowed?" he repeated. "This includes me, I presume?"

"Yes", Raoul replied simply.

Not unexpected, of course. "And what are you going to do about me?"

Raoul answered his gaze without blinking. "I want you handed over to the police, to make you answer for your crimes."

"Keep on dreaming, kid."

"You will yet face your judge", Raoul said quietly.

"We shall see", the Phantom answered calmly.

The boy inhaled deeply. "But until then, I suggest a truce."

"A truce?" Again the Phantom raised his eyebrows at him. Was the fool trying to play at soldiers now? Or what else was he up to?

"Like we're allies", Raoul explained, "until we've managed to get rid of Créon and Adhemar and Niobe and all the others." There was a very slight note of reluctance in his voice towards the end; clearly he did not like the idea of fighting a woman. "Until now, we have the same cause to strive for."

How nicely put. "Very well", the Phantom said. He would have preferred to decline and laugh at the foolish boy, but this was exactly what Christine wanted, wasn't it? And besides, he really did not want to endanger either Christine or Meg. "It will be a truce, then."

"Right." Raoul held out a hand, and he took it, though wishing to at least twist the idiot's fingers off. The boy's handshake was surprisingly firm. "Until Créon gets what he deserves. But after that… you had better be careful."

The Phantom nodded grimly. "And you."

Raoul gave him a little smile, almost indiscernible in the darkness of the corridor. "I'll remember to keep my hand at the level of my eyes."

"For your own sake, I hope you will."

Raoul gave him a mock little salute. "I'll see you in the morning, then. Good night."

The Phantom watched his retreating back grimly as he walked down the corridor, imagining to rip his head off and kick it down the stairs.

Just before he reached the landing, Raoul turned around again. "One more thing, mate", he called back to the Phantom softly. "I hear any complaints from Meg, and you're in trouble."

"There will be none", the Phantom replied icily. "Good night to you, kid."

Shrugging, Raoul disappeared up the stairs to his own bedroom. Even after he had gone, the Phantom still glared into the darkness.

Finally he turned and slipped back into the guest bedroom where Meg slept. It would make a better impression if he stayed up all night, fully alert, yet Raoul had already seen him in the same bed as Meg, so he might as well return there. He might as well get some rest; a few hours of sleep would do him some good. And maybe he would feel better when he woke again; maybe the pain in his mind would be gone. Massaging his temples fruitlessly, he hoped it would.

Climbing over Meg carefully, he tried not to wake her as he crawled under the blanket beside her. Using a mental embrace to calm her down while he was comfortably settling into the bed would surely have worked, yet because of his reluctance to touch her with his soiled-feeling mind, he did no such thing. Instead, he tried singing to her softly.

"_Mit Gewitter und Sturm, aus fernem Meer –  
Mein Mädel, bin dir nah!  
Über turmhohe Flut, von Süden her –  
Mein Mädel, ich bin da!  
Mein Mädel, wenn nicht Südwind wär',  
Ich nimmer wohl käm' zu dir:  
Ach, lieber Südwind, blas noch mehr!  
__Mein Mädel verlangt nach mir..._"

But despite his efforts, Meg woke when he lay down beside her, yawned and tried to sit up.

Placing a hand on her shoulder, he used gentle pressure to keep her down. "Sleep, little one", he muttered to her as he stretched out on his back once more. He was crumpling his shirt, it occurred to him, yet he was reluctant to take it off with Meg sleeping beside him. He did not know her that well, after all, and she would probably be more comfortable with him if he was fully dressed.

Meg settled down with her head on his shoulder, one of her arms snaking around his waist. "Where have you been?" she whispered to him.

"Never mind", he murmured, stroking her hair. "I'm back now." She did not possess Christine's admirable curls, yet at least her hair felt silky to the touch, and it was pleasant to thread his fingers through it.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Fine." There was no need for her to know about what he still felt. Besides, being close to her and covered by a warm blanket eased the remaining pain considerably. He would just fall asleep now, and when he woke again a few hours later, he would feel truly well once more.

Meg snuggled against him closely as she had done before, so he could again feel her breasts against his ribs. Hell, how he liked that! Wrapping both arms around her slender form, he held her close, so she would not shift her position too soon. She would surely feel safe with him now.

"Can I ask you something?" Meg whispered, and he felt her breath against the side of his neck. "Why did both Créon and my mother call you Erik?"

He tried to stifle a yawn, yet without much success. When he could speak again, he replied, "It was my name once, but this was a long time ago."

She seemed to be content with that, for she did not press the matter any further. For some time she was silent, then she whispered, "Will you sing to me again?"

"If you want me to." He considered it for a moment, sought for anything suitable, but her mentioning this old name had planted something in his mind, something that, when he thought about it, and about Christine, broke his heart anew.

"_Willst jenes Tags du nicht mehr dich entsinnen,  
Als du zu dir mich riefest in das Tal?  
Als, dir des Hochlands Blume zu gewinnen,  
Mutvoll ich trug Beschwerden ohne Zahl?  
Gedenkst du, wie auf steilem Felsenriffe  
Vom Ufer wir den Vater scheiden sah'n?  
Er zog dahin auf weiß beschwingtem Schiffe  
Und meinem Schutz vertraute er dich an.  
Als sich dein Arm um meinen Nacken schlang,  
Gestandest du mir Liebe nicht aufs Neu'?  
Was bei der Hände Druck mich hehr durchdrang,  
Sag, war's nicht die Versich'rung deiner Treu'?_"

Her breathing grew deeper and steadier, and after some time he was sure that she was asleep now. She had not noticed that there were tears rolling down his cheeks.

Christine, Christine, why did you have to do this to me?

But no, he would not think of it anymore. Not tonight. He would enjoy what he had for now, and he would not think of anything else. Gently stroking Meg's hair, he felt how his tears slowly subsided. He did not have the woman he loved, but there was someone else who cared about him. A friend. He was not alone.

That anyone would fall asleep snuggled against him still came close to a miracle, in his opinion, but he would not ponder Meg's obscure reasons to trust him any longer now. He had no intention of betraying her trust as yet. Maybe he would fully seduce her another time. But now he was just too tired for it.

But whatever he was going to do with her later on, whether he made her his or not, she could be certain to have his protection. Not in the way Christine had it, of course, but still, he would be there for her, just like for her mother. He would watch over his little one and make sure she was well.

Resting his unmasked cheek against the top of her head, he, too, finally closed his eyes.


	44. BOOK SEVEN: The Toll of Death

**Book Seven: The Toll of Death**

I. Cold and monumental  
II. Try to forgive  
III. No Use resisting  
IV. You try my Patience

Author's Note: First _things first: Once again, you'll find all the translations you might need stacked in among the reviews. They'd just look so annoying in the text. However, I might change my policy of putting author's notes in here, because I've been suspected of making author's-note-only chapters (which is not quite true, I'm just trying to get the book titles in separately to give this epically long thing a structure, and they're just the best place for shoving in author's notes). But maybe everything will change – not in this story, though, I'm a great one for continuity gg - because – here's a grand announcement – due to my sister's firm and explicit demands (meaning they were underlined with a poking finger in the ribs and several threats for the future) THERE WILL (probably) BE A SEQUEL TO THIS._

_This is also the reason why a few things I had planned for this story will change, so those among you who got spoilers might want to e-mail me to have them put right. ;-)_

_To all of you, thanks a lot for reviewing, and have fun with what lies ahead…_


	45. I Cold and monumental

**I. Cold and monumental**

"God, we'll never find a way out of this", Gaston groaned, getting up again after he had stumbled over some obstacle hidden by the darkness for what felt like the hundredth time. His knees were burning like fire from all the sudden and mostly forceful contacts with the rough ground, and so were his hands.

"I'm tired", Hulot stated.

"We all are", Serge muttered.

They had come a long way, and they had no idea how far they still had to go. They were hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of passages below the Opera Populaire.

"I never realized there were that many corridors down here", Hulot said, brushing his hair out of his sweaty face absent-mindedly.

"There probably aren't", Gaston sighed. "I reckon we've passed the same twice or more."

Nobody protested to this, and Gaston assumed that they all were thinking the same, or at least along those lines.

Of what use had their escape been, and of what use Claude's probable sacrifice, when they now were stumbling through wet, endless corridors in the darkness, unable to find a way out? They might as well still be in this fearsome minion's clutches, Gaston thought bitterly; at least they could have lain down for some rest, then, and maybe they would have even been able to sleep, instead of desperately searching the path which would lead them upstairs, back to the daylight they yearned to see again so much.

Down here, in this eternal night, Gaston found it hard to believe that there was any such thing as light.

There was a splash, unnaturally loud in the silence of the Opera House's bowels, and Gaston winced. He had been down here for far too long. Every dripping of water, every squeaking and scrabbling of a rat turned into a sound of pursuit in his mind. I'm going mad, he thought, my God, I'm going mad. Or are they really coming for us?

A softly muttered curse told him that it was only Serge, who had stepped into a puddle of water on the floor.

Good God, would this never end?

And it seemed that even stoic Serge was on edge, when he cursed in a situation when he normally wouldn't. Under normal circumstances, a backdrop coming crashing down at his very feet after he had secured it for the third time in a row would be tried hard to make Serge curse.

The moment would come when Gaston would wish that they caught them again, he knew it. He would wish that they had caught them again, so this all would be over, and they would again be heading in a direction which he knew.

People said that the Phantom used to live down here. Down here, in this eternal darkness. Down here, where no living human soul ever ventured. Gaston tried to imagine what this would be like, living down here in the darkness, and shivered at the mere idea. And to think that the Phantom was not a spectre, as they had learned recently, but a man of flesh and blood… Now Gaston had been down here, he almost felt sorry for him.

On they dragged their feet, exhausted, but unable to stop, because if they did, it appeared to Gaston, they would never again be able to summon up the courage to go on once more. Those vast, cold, imposing vaults would become their tomb, and the Opera House itself the most monumental tombstone ever erected to a man – only that it would not bear their names. They would be forgotten as the years wore on, and after some time none would remember them.

What did it matter, then, if they ever came out of this labyrinth, when they would not be remembered anyway? These lives they had led, and all their hopes and fears, all their passions and memories would fade to mist as time passed them by. No matter if they lived or died, none would remember their names.

And so centuries would come and go, and they all would be long forgotten, he and Serge and Hulot, yet the Opera House, their mighty tombstone, would remain. And maybe, if, in years yet to come, somebody would venture down into the deepest dungeons of their cold and monumental grave… maybe this man would catch a whisper of their names on a breeze that would stir underground, a gentle breath from a time long past, and they would live again for a moment… live again… for a moment… for a moment in the light… and under the sky… the wind would carry them… just a moment, live for just a moment under the sky… in the light… the light… the light…

"Light!" Serge hissed, and Gaston came back to his senses abruptly. "There's light ahead!"

And indeed, there was a tiny speck of flickering yellowish light, like the light from a candle, and it was coming towards them.

Gaston felt his insides freeze. "It's them!" he breathed. "We must run!" But he could not move; he stood like rooted to the ground.

"I can't run", Hulot whispered beside him. "Not anymore."

Huddling against the rough stone wall, they waited, their eyes fixed on the light approaching them. Even Serge's bearing had lost all its usual grace and pride now; he stood like a bull awaiting the butcher's axe, tall and strong, but… broken.

Minutes elongated into eternity. First there was only the light, then there were footsteps, then an outline against the darkness. A man. One single man. He was coming closer. The light shone all around him.

"At last." The voice sounded youthful, as if a very young man's. At the same time, a face became visible in the light of the candle, a face that was a young man's as well, even-featured and fair-haired. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, or maybe a little younger.

And Gaston knew him. He recognized that face, because he had seen it before, just a short time ago. This man, together with another, had been among the milling mass of their captor's servants, and when the pair of them had paused to regard the prisoners, they had stood out among the dark kind around them because of their light skin and blond hair.

"Blimey, it took me ages to find you." The young man's voice carried a strange accent, one Gaston did not recognize at all. "But it seems you haven't got far." He flashed a bright grin at them, exposing a set of quite perfect white teeth. And to Gaston's immense astonishment, it was not an unpleasant grin.

But what surprised him even more was that it was Hulot who first addressed the fair-haired youth. "What do you want with us?"

The lad flashed them another toothy grin. "Do my liege-lord's bidding, of course. Get you out of here safely, and then bring you to somebody. No idea who exactly. He wasn't too clear on that." He frowned for a moment, then shrugged. "Not that it bothers me. All my uncle's business, the other half of it. And I'll find out soon enough anyway." Gesturing in the direction he had come from with his candle, making the light flicker and dance, he finished, "What are we waiting for, then? I reckon we should be going."

"Now wait a minute", Gaston broke in, understanding not even half of what the young man had been telling them. "You don't mean to say that… Who is this liege-lord of yours?"

"Oh, him", the youth said lightly. "Not Créon, if that's what you think." Probably noticing the look of irritation on Gaston's face, he added, "That Master bloke. Big fellow, long hair, ugly scar on his face, bandage over one eye – ah, I see you realize who I mean. No, not him."

"Who then?" Gaston asked, and his breath caught as he realized what the answer might be.

However, the one to utter the question was, once again, Hulot. "Are you the Ghost's man, then?" And to think that Gaston had believed that Hulot had not been paying attention when he had explained to him about their plans!

Throwing back his head, the lad laughed. "No", he said, shattering Gaston's sudden hope, "not for the Lord Phantom, either. Though if he is whom you serve, then I serve your liege-lord's secret ally."

There was an unspoken question in the lad's words, but Gaston wondered how to answer it. _Liege-lord_? This boy was a stranger fellow than Gaston had expected. What should he answer? What was it the young man expected? There could only be one possible answer, he realized.

He drew a deep breath.

Only one answer.

God help us all.

"Yes", Gaston declared, and at once this cold place, these monumental foundations of stone seemed strangely solemn to him. "We serve the Lord Phantom."

The lad bowed his head. "Then follow me."

As he and his friends trailed after the fair-haired young man in the darkness, Gaston saw that the boy, while holding up the candle with his right hand, held what seemed to be a map in his left, and he regularly checked their position as he swiftly led them through the darkness. Soon they found themselves before a dead end, and Gaston suspected that it was the very same to which he and his companions had come once before, or maybe twice, though it was impossible for him to say now how long ago that had been. The lad stopped and, handing his candle and map over to Serge wordlessly, began running his hands over the stone, muttering under his breath. To Gaston, it sounded like curses, yet in the current situation he would not have been surprised had the boy spoken incantations.

After half a minute, maybe more or maybe a little less, a gentle grating sound could be heard, like stone grinding over stone, and then the wall slowly began to move. Gaston watched in awe as what seemed like a massive stretch of wall receded for about five feet, revealing a narrow, dark passage leading off into blackness to their left. There was a soft gasp from Hulot as he stepped forward to see the strange spectacle more clearly, yet Serge remained where he was, and his features did not shift at all. Those smoky green eyes gleamed oddly in the flickering candlelight.

Once again, Hulot surprised everybody, this time by wanting to venture into the darkness first. With an expectant look at the fair-haired young man, Gaston held him back by the sleeve. But the lad, though he accepted map and candle back from Serge, made no move towards the opening. Instead, he closed his eyes, and an expression of concentration entered his face. His lips moved slightly, just as if forming words, and occasionally he wet them with the tip of his tongue. Then, as quickly as he had begun to act in this strange way, he opened his eyes again, and he grinned brightly once more and finally started towards the narrow passage revealed by the wall sliding back. "After me, if you please, folks", he said cheerfully.

Gaston cleared his throat uncertainly. Should he ask, or had he rather not? He decided to try. "What were you just doing?"

"Oh, that." The lad acted as if closing one's eyes and seemingly talking to oneself was a perfectly normal way to behave. "Just communicating to my lord that it's time to send my uncle forth from his current position now."

"_Communicating_? To your… Now wait a minute. You don't mean to say that…"

"I don't have to stand opposite him to speak with him", the lad said lightly, in a tone as if stating the obvious. "He has access to my mind, and to my uncle's. We just take our positions, and he tells us when to act. It's quite simple."

Gaston exchanged a glance with Serge, who shrugged. At least Serge understood this no more than he did. "That's… quite extraordinary", he commented.

"Why, of course it is. But my lord can hardly be considered an ordinary man, now can he?" The boy spoke as he turned to run his hands over the wall beside him, and soon the grinding noise from earlier on was repeated, and the wall slowly closed behind them, blocking their way back. Watching this did not give Gaston a pleasant feeling somehow. "Of course, that particular trick is fairly new. He picked it up from your master, I daresay, at least from what he mentioned. He is aware of us at all times, and he knows our exact location because he can feel us. Well, he could do that before, but this way, it's much clearer now, and we can contact him as well, not only the other way round. He claims there's still need for experimenting, yet it seems to work well enough to me."

Listening to the strange things the boy was telling them in wonder, Gaston hardly noticed that the passage they had been led into narrowed even more, so it came as a surprise when his shoulder brushed the wall on one side. They had been forced to walk in single file from the beginning, but soon, Gaston expected, they might have to walk sideways as well.

"There we are." In the weak light of the candle, Gaston could barely distinguish what seemed to be a curtain, but of a very heavy fabric, thick layers of leather maybe. Reaching out, the lad brushed it aside with some difficulty and stepped out into the open, and Gaston and his friends followed. The air felt less stuffed in here, but Gaston was not entirely sure that this was a good thing at all.

"Right", the lad said. "Now listen carefully." His voice was still tinged with an odd accent, but Gaston barely noticed it anymore. "It's not far now, but we'll still have to go slow. For some time, we'll be on dangerous ground. My liege-lord assures me that every step you take can be your last, if you're not careful. So keep off to the side, to the rail, at all times. Hold on with both hands, and keep as close to the wall as possible. And be prepared to fall." He made a dramatic pause, though he spoiled the effect somewhat by grinning. "The light will have to go now, of course."

Serge quickly took in their surroundings, as far as the weak candlelight reached. "We're on the great staircase, then", he said.

The great staircase. Gaston felt a touch of cold, like an icy hand grasping his heart. A vast, wide spiral staircase, with what seemed to be a drop to the bottomless in its middle, leading down to the lowest cellars. Nobody ever went beyond a certain level; in fact, they had been warned never to do so. The lowest basements were not used anyway, and Gaston wondered if they had ever truly been, maybe before the water had seemingly pressed in from outside. And people said that the lower parts of this staircase were… dangerous. Not that anybody seemed to know why; they just said it was. It was a story everybody knew, just like the story of the Opera Ghost, and now, as Gaston stood down here, and as the lad blew out his candle, leaving them in complete and utter darkness, Gaston was just as ready to believe it.

"Very well", came the boy's voice from somewhere ahead. "Both hands on the rail, now. Firmly. And walk slowly. And if anything happens, then be sure to tell the others, but not too loudly. This place carries sound much too well."

Gaston had no choice but to do as he was instructed. The cold hand was still there, threatening to paralyze him. What, precisely, might happen? From what their guide had mentioned, it sounded pretty much as if the ground were likely to drop away from beneath their feet. He shuddered inwardly at the idea. If only Hulot held on tightly! "Hold on", he hissed to his friend, right behind him in the darkness. There came no answer.

Slowly, very slowly, they began to venture forward. Serge seemed to follow the boy closely, and Gaston tried to keep immediately at his heels, every now and again listening intently for the sounds Hulot made behind him. Every breath, every step, every sign of life from the man behind him was a new relief, only to be replaced quickly by fear rising up once more.

How long they slowly climbed the stairs this way, Gaston had no idea. Every moment he expected the ground to give way beneath his soles, and his hands on the thin metal rail were long slippery with sweat, yet he dared not take them away and wipe them dry on his trousers, in case the ground would suddenly choose to devour him. He knew that he would not be able to hold on for long if he really fell, yet still he did not dare to loose his grip for one moment.

At last the blond lad's voice came again from the blackness ahead. "Right. We can walk normally now."

Gaston found himself feeling as relieved as he probably had never felt in his life, happiness flooding him with an overwhelming power. They had made it! They had left those dreadful cellars!

But what now? Only then the question occurred to him. Where was the boy leading them?

Huddled close together in a cluster, they made their way up the stairs. Gaston was glad for his friends' proximity; at least he knew this way that they were alright. Well, not exactly alright, maybe, given that they all had received more than only a handful of scratches and bruises on their risky escape attempt – he still did not understand that there had been no more than a few to pursuer them, and that they had given up rather soon apparently. But as well as they could be.

As they left the staircase, Gaston could have capered with joy. They were on known territory now. They were back home.

And soon there was a light ahead, the light of another candle in the deep shadows. There were two shapes ahead, one of them, the one holding the candle, a man as fair-haired as their guide was, though he looked definitely older, and his hair was cut shorter. He might be around forty years of age, Gaston guessed. His features were serious and hard without being rough, and he had a sharp nose. When he spoke, the same accent was in his voice as in the lad's – his nephew's, Gaston assumed. "You took rather long, Sándor, my boy, yet let us not discuss unimportant matters. I think we can see this mission as accomplished." Then he turned to address Gaston and his friends. "Messieurs, you may call me Lászlo. I work for the same lord as my nephew here does, and am equally here to do his bidding."

"Yet you haven't yet revealed what his bidding might be." Lászlo's companion, previously half hidden behind him, now stepped out into the candlelight, nearly causing Gaston's jaw to drop. It was Madame Giry, the mistress of ballet, in a dark red flannel robe, yet looking as stern and dignified as ever. From how thin her lips appeared, Gaston could easily tell that she was in a towering temper. Who wouldn't be, probably scared out of bed in the middle of the night? But he knew from experience that whenever Madame Giry's temper changed for the worse, it was best to step lightly around her. Very lightly indeed.

However, Lászlo did not appear to be intimidated by her at all. "It is nearly fulfilled now", he replied. "The only thing we still need is you to provide us with the location of the Lord Phantom."

"I _told_ you to quit calling him Lord all the time", Madame Giry snapped. "He's no Lord, and he's not likely to become one any time soon. And if you call him so to his face, I bet he'll be strutting around looking horribly smug for a week. Moreover, what makes you assume that I know where to find him? You still haven't answered that question."

"My liege-lord was positively sure you would know", Lászlo replied calmly.

"And why should I trust you with it?"

"There's no need to. All you have to do, Madame, is take these three gentlemen to wherever he is hiding. And make sure they tell him everything they know." Beckoning to his young nephew, Lászlo already turned to go. "Oh yes, and one more thing", he said over his shoulder. "Make sure to tell him that he won't stand any chance as long as he tries to face everybody _at once_." With this, and a meaningful look, he and Sándor disappeared, conversing softly in a language Gaston did not remember to have heard before, the light of the candle abruptly dimmed as they turned around a corner, and then it faded away completely.

There came an indignant snort from the darkness. "Not exactly what I would call a gentleman", Madame Giry remarked. "Very well, Messieurs, come with me. You are going to see a Ghost first thing this morning."

Trudging after her in the darkness, Gaston felt his thoughts spin wildly in his head. Where were they going? What was going to happen now? And, most important of all, what did Madame Giry have to do with the Opera Ghost?


	46. II Try to forgive

**II. Try to forgive**

The fire had burned down almost completely, leaving nothing but a faint, reddish glow. Otherwise, the living room was cast into darkness. After her tormenting dreams, though, Christine found that it was a warm, welcoming darkness, one that would surround her like a soft, velvety cloak, and swallow her gently into its loving embrace…

Now what was she thinking there? She gave herself a jerk. This was…weird. Just weird. Romantic, in an odd sense, but all the same, weird.

_His_ influence, certainly. She could feel him, although she could not see him. But her awareness of him told her that he was there, and she knew better than to mistrust her awareness of him.

Yes, she could indeed feel him. That raging hailstorm certainly did not belong into her own mind. But after those dreams, she was almost glad for it.

The thick carpet tickled her bare feet as she softly stepped into the living room. Curled up before the gently glowing embers lay the small dog's furry form, one paw possessively over what seemed to be a leather boot, and it was breathing steadily and deeply, fast asleep. The other boot of the pair lay only a little distance away, beside the sofa.

And these were not Raoul's boots.

He must be very close, because his presence filled her completely, yet it did not have the dark, alluring quality it usually possessed. Instead, there was a strong sense of unease, making her palms moist with sweat. He felt like a coiled spring, ready to jump at anything that moved… and at the same time like a wounded animal which had crawled into a hole, knowing that the hunter was approaching, but too tired to run.

This was all the proof she needed to be certain where those dreams had come from.

To her right, a tall shadow dispatched itself from the darkness. A white mask shimmered gently in the gloom. "You can't sleep." It was not a question.

Christine almost shivered as she realized that his normally so pleasant, so musical voice had taken on such a throaty, husky tone. Only once before had she heard that, and this had been on that fateful night when he had carried her off down to his lair and had threatened to kill Raoul. Involuntarily she took a step backward. No, she had been wrong about the wounded animal, or rather, there was an important detail she had missed: He might be tired of running, but he was still ready to fight. And he would kill again.

Just as if reading her thoughts, he kept himself at some distance, yet she doubted that he truly knew what was going on inside her. Had he been observing her feelings, she would have felt differently. No, he must have reasons of his own to stay away from her, and if it was only his wounded pride.

"No", she answered his question. "Because _you_ can't, it seems." Was he aware of this at all, in that turmoil of feelings?

From across the room, she heard him sigh, yet she was not entirely sure if she had heard correctly. "I am not aware of establishing the connection", he claimed.

"Well, neither did I", she returned. This was foolish; who of them would reach out to the other, if not him? He could say whatever he liked, but it had still been him. After all, there was no denying that he still wanted her. She knew he did. And she wished so much he wouldn't, and not only because it hurt her to have to wound him, rejecting him. His mad love for her made him highly unpredictable, and dangerous to Raoul. Whatever he might have promised her when she had cornered him alone, right after dinner, she would never leave him alone with Raoul. With her own life, she would trust him any time, but not with her fiancé's. Never with her fiancé's.

Why did the two men closest to her have to be mortal enemies? Why could they not just accept each other, or even be friends? But wishing for this was useless; neither would ever take the other's hand, not if the sky came tumbling down.

Perhaps, if she had introduced the two of them earlier on… No, highly unlikely. _"Angel, this is Raoul, another friend of mine. Incidentally, I'm planning to marry him." _No, it would not have helped at all. The Phantom would still have been at Raoul's throat on the earliest occasion possible. After all, he wanted her so much that he would kill without a thought to make her his, and this was what scared her, much more than his scarred face. To those features she could have gotten used soon enough, but the knowledge that he was… twisted in a different way was enough to keep her away from him. He claimed that she, just like everybody, rejected him because of his face, yet it was his black soul that made her want to keep him at a distance. She still pitied him for his lifelong loneliness, and for having to break his heart when he loved her so much, but all the same, she could not allow herself, indulging in her memories of him being her Angel, her beloved guardian and tutor, to oversee the fact that he was… evil. And evil in a way Raoul could not even possibly imagine.

Why did her adored Angel have to turn out to be a demon from Hell?

"Well, that's bad", he said flatly. "But it explains a lot."

"What do you mean?" she asked, alarmed, and knowing his habit of not letting his feelings, especially his fears, show made her dread the worst.

"Do you really think you were just having my nightmares?" So he knew after all! "If this were so, you would have had them before, wouldn't you?"

"How do you know I was having nightmares, and how do you know they were yours?" She was merely avoiding another question, it occurred to her, putting it off for another time, and she did not like the thought at all.

"I was suspecting so when you came here. Why else would you come, in the middle of the night? Not to check whether I was nicely tucked under a blanket, I reckon." As so often, there was a tiny touch of bitterness in his voice. She knew how much he longed to spend the night holding her in his arms. "You came here to tell me to get out of your head, didn't you? But it's useless, because it's not me."

"Who else, then?" But she already knew the answer.

"Créon." He spat the name as if it were a disgusting thing he had taken a bite of accidentally. "He's trying to reach me still, and he won't let go. There's no point in hiding, because he will always find me, and he will hunt me 'til I'm dead."

The thunderstorm of his feelings in her head was raging worse than before, wrath, fear, humiliation, hatred. How he could contain all those sentiments without being torn apart was a mystery to her; even in their mirrored form, as a diminished reflection inside her head, they were strong enough to almost make her cringe with dread. But what scared her even more was how much like herself he suddenly sounded, like when she had told Raoul about the Phantom's actual existence, and later on, when she had told him about her fears.

"What is it you saw in your dreams?" he demanded, still at some distance from her. Why would he not come closer? She would have expected him to do so, at least now!

But maybe it was better that way, especially in regard of her tendency to mentally melt down to a puddle as soon as he touched her.

"Him", she whispered, as reluctant to speak Créon's name as she was reluctant to relive what she had seen. How she longed for Raoul's comforting embrace! "He killed a man. Over and over again. And he said that there were more waiting. Four more. I even saw their faces. And… God, I recognized them! I knew those faces! And… and…" She swallowed. What seemed to be a lump the size and weight of a millstone was building up in her throat. "I believe they truly are in his hands. Maybe he even killed that one." Oh God, my God, please make that it's not true! "I knew him, he was a stagehand, and he was ever so polite when I met him… and I saw him die. All the time. Over and over again." Her eyes stung and burned as tears were welling up in them. "Then he started to focus on another one. I knew him, too. A stage carpenter, I think. God, I know all of them! Not so well, but I know them! I see them all the time! And he's going to kill him, too. He's going to kill them all!" By now, tears were running down her cheeks freely. Oh, Raoul, Raoul! "He said he would if I… you wouldn't come. He said it was all my… your fault. While killing that man! He said it was all your fault! And then I was… all drenched in blood… in the man's blood… over and over again…" Her voice broke, and she shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself, tears dripping down onto her nightdress.

He approached her slowly, but still he did not come close enough to touch her. "No, I think he really meant you", he said slowly. "Because he was telling me something different. He said he would kill all of my men, everybody at my theatre, to teach me humility, and he… he said that my denying to be fateless would not prevent him from writing out my fate for me." As he drew breath, it sounded half choked. "But what does it matter what he told me? He found a way of getting at you, and that's much worse! And I can't keep him out of your head, just as I can't keep him out of my own! Hell knows I can't!" Slumping down onto the back of the sofa, he pressed his knuckles to his temples. "It's all my own fault, all of this, and I deserve to die for it a thousand times!"

"Angel…", she began.

"Don't call me that!" The sudden sharpness of his tone made her recoil. "Don't you ever call me that again!"

Taking a cautious step backward, Christine tried to analyze the bundle of whirling emotions somewhere at the back of her head. Had she hurt him? Did he think she was mocking him? "I didn't…", she began, "I…" She had no idea what to say, and the way his eyes glinted in the darkness, like a pair of cold, sharp diamonds, made her insides freeze to ice. She should not have come down here alone. However much he loved her, he was dangerous. And he knew no mercy.

More tears flowed from her eyes as she realized that the Phantom could not possibly help her. He could only cause her more pain.

At once he was beside her, hesitantly extending a hand to touch her shoulder, but then let it drop to his side once more. "Forgive me", he whispered hoarsely. "It's not your fault." Once again he briefly raised his hand, but then pulled it back to him firmly, clenched to a fist. "There is something I didn't tell you." He paused, licking his lips uneasily. Christine had seen him highly content and deeply wounded, gentle and affectionate as well as rough and furious, but never like this. "In fact, two things." He was shuffling his feet nervously where he sat, she noticed – and he was in his socks, which made him look a lot less impressive than usual. "Créon told me that… He said that we, I mean, him and his men and me… he said we were all fallen angels who were banished to dwell on earth." Once this was said, it seemed to Christine that telling her about the rest had become easier for him now. "He just made that up, of course", he quickly added, grimly, "yet, all the same… They all have those markings. Those scars. The Devil's Touch, they call it. Créon has a deep cut, like drawn with a sword and right over one eye, Niobe has something on the side of her neck, like a scar, too, Adhemar has those scratches all over his face…" He paused for a swallow of air, then continued, "Bertrand's face is half kicked in, there's something wrong with Aeternus's hand, and Ferox has that arm which looks like there's no skin on it. And Atrox has sores and boils over one side of his face, needless to say which. Even Lionel had it, he had those teeth, like… I don't know. Like icicles lining the edge of a roof. Like a shark's teeth, really. And only on the right side." Christine did not exactly know what a shark's teeth looked like, only that there would be many of them, yet the comparison to icicles along a roof's edge made her shudder. Could anyone look like this? It was hard to believe. "You see, it can't just be an accident. It can't! But I don't want to be one of them", he finished furiously. "I'm no Lost One! And I'm no angel! They're all mad, anyway. At least Créon is. And Niobe, and Adhemar. I don't know about Aeternus, but he seemed sane enough to me, just… evil, in a way. There's some profit for him in the whole business, yet I can't quite see it." He shrugged helplessly. "And Bertrand says he is over a hundred and seventy years old! I don't know how old the others are, but they kept calling me boy." His expression darkened even more for a moment. "It might just be another lie, but on the other hand… you know, I'm older than I look, too. I just grew up, and then… I stopped changing. But that doesn't make me an angel! It's a damn lie!"

Christine wanted to tell him that indeed he did not belong to those Lost Ones, that he had nothing to do with them, yet the evidence was overwhelming. Nonetheless, she gave it a try. "Look, about your age…" What should she tell him? That he was well-preserved? No, this would only sound stupid. He couldn't be _that_ old, anyway! "You're something around thirty, aren't you?"

"Exactly my point", he replied bitterly. "I must be about twenty years older."

_Twenty years older?_ Never! It was impossible! Yet if he said so himself… So she decided to try something else. This was an awkward topic, very much so, but it was the only other chance she saw. "How long have you had those scars?"

His lips tightened as she mentioned them. "I have no idea. As long as I can remember. I might have been born with them, for all I know." For a moment he fell silent, then he burst out, "Curse it all, I must have been! Why else would my mother have hated me so much? Because I was born a monster, that's why! Because she thought I was her punishment for whatever sin she had committed!"

As Christine felt the part of her mind that was him fill with sadness, she reached out to touch his arm for a moment. "You're no monster", she said gently. No, not for her. Whatever gruesome things he might have done in his past, he was no monster. A cruel world had made him what he was, alone and full of hatred, yet deep down in his black heart, he was good. She just knew he was. After all, he had let her and Raoul go in the end. He might be violent and utterly ruthless, in a certain aspect, yet he was not evil. Not him. Even if she considered him so at times. But it was not right.

Yet still, he had killed quite mercilessly to get at her, and she did not doubt that he would do so again, given the chance. And he had let her and Raoul go only because he loved her.

But he had been kind to her when she had still been a child. He had made her what she was now, and he had asked nothing in return.

Well… he had craved to possess her. And even the most evil of men would be kind at times.

He had practically asked for her soul.

"Don't deny it", he said bitterly. "And it's better if you don't touch me. I feel like… tainted… from Créon's touch."

She swallowed. This was exactly how she felt, as if there were a thin, oily layer of molten filth laid over her every thought, and slowly beginning to dry. "I feel the same", she told him. Would that feeling ever go away?

His features contorted in a grimace of outrage, making her wince. "He'll die for this!" he snarled, and she knew that he meant it. "He'll die for doing this to you!"

Shocked at herself, she found that this thought gave her a kind of cruel satisfaction she had never experienced before. Good God, what was going on inside her? This would be what the Phantom would feel like, probably, but never what _she_ would feel!

And this reminded her of something which had happened earlier on. "Say… is there any way I might be… I don't know… adopting your habits, in some way?"

He frowned into the last glow remaining of the fire. "What do you mean?"

"I've never had a bad temper, but tonight, when getting ready for going to bed, I snapped at Raoul for no reason."

She expected everything from a scathing remark about Raoul to a furious outburst about her opinion of his temper, but at first he said nothing at all. Then he answered, slowly, "I think this might have been when Créon first tried establishing a connection. He must have done it very subtly, because I hardly noticed it, especially with that awareness of him, of what he's done with my mind earlier on, still fixed in my head. And as for the dreams… it doesn't take much to manipulate dreams. I know that for certain."

Christine shuddered. The idea of this utterly evil, this monstrous man inside her head… If only Raoul were here to give her a tight hug! But except comforting her, there was nothing Raoul could do for her now.

And this was why she had come here in the first place: not only because his madly reeling thoughts, reflected inside her mind, were preventing her from sleep, but also because he probably was the only one who could do something about those dreadful dreams. After all, he had watched, no, guarded her dreams before. So many times, when she had had a nightmare, her Angel had appeared and chased it away, and then comforted her and sang to her until she drifted over towards a happier dream. She had dreamed of him every night, though she had never been able to see his face clearly, but he had been there for her, and she had never been afraid of going to sleep, because when she had been afraid in her dreams, she had never been alone.

"Is there anything you can do about it?" she tried it, carefully. She did not want to force him to admit that there was nothing he could do, if that should be so. "Or anything I myself can do, to ward my dreams?"

At first he only looked pensive, then he nodded. "Yes, I could say there is. I can keep him out of your head by learning how to fight him. How to block him out of my mind. And I think I figured out how it's done, at least more or less. I've always learned things by watching people doing them, and Aeternus made the mistake of showing me, in the very beginning." Shifting his position on the back of the sofa, where he was still sitting, he explained to her at last what she had yearned to know almost since she had first encountered him face to face. "When entering someone's mind, you usually do it through the eyes. It's the easiest way. I now learned that eye contact is not as crucial as I used to believe it was, but still, I'll use it if I have the choice." Yes indeed, how well she remembered! He had held her gaze with his own, so many times, and she had thought to drown in it. "Adhemar knew about it, because he never met my eyes", he continued. "Aeternus did, when I first saw him, but I couldn't access his mind. He blocked me out. All I saw were clouds of mist."

"Clouds of mist!" Christine exclaimed, making the young dog shift and roll over in its sleep, only to curl up anew, this time lying right on top of the Phantom's boot. "When I accidentally caught that glimpse through your eyes, I saw those clouds of mist."

He nodded. "Well observed. It seems that I was struggling harder against Créon than I at first thought I was, because I always saw those mists while he was searching through my head, except when he managed to trap me in my own memories. I've seen it done often enough, and it's only a question of time until I manage to do so myself." Again he shifted on his perch, but this time to look right at her. Their eyes met, yet he did not delve into her in any way. He only looked at her. "But I think I need your help to do so."

Taking a deep, calming breath, she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. He was not holding her, and, most importantly, he was not Raoul, but having someone close was comforting nonetheless. "What do you mean?" Her voice sounded surprisingly steady now.

"I need someone to practise with", he replied simply. "Someone who can read my mind."

"I can't –", she began, yet he waved her protests away with a lazy motion of his hand, and she decided to admit what she had admitted once before on this day. "I mean", she said instead, "I can't do it properly."

"That doesn't matter. You're the only one who might be of any help to me."

There was no use protesting any longer. After all, she truly was the only one, except those who were with Créon, of course, and he couldn't possibly ask _them_. He really needed her. Though she did not exactly like the idea, she finally agreed to do what he required of her. But one wrong move, or one single attempt to take advantage of her situation, and he could go and ask Créon to practise with him!

"Right", he said. "Go and enter my mind, then, if you please."

Trying to breathe calmly, she attempted what he asked of her, concentrating on the awareness of him in the back of her head while looking him in the eyes. At first, nothing happened at all. Heavens, how did he do it? There must be _something_ he did, something like… Focusing on their bond, she imagined to pull at it, to pull at the mixture of feelings that was him, to pull it closer, closer –

And there he was, very suddenly, shifting into focus and becoming much clearer, until he filled her awareness almost completely. His uneasiness made her nervous, his gently boiling anger, forced down yet ready to resurfaced any moment, gave her at least a mild annoyance. And the sense of hope she felt inside him offered her hope as well.

She sensed how he examined her in turn, but did not try to interfere. It was harmless, she felt, only a gently tickling sensation compared to his true touch she was so used to. Reaching what seemed to be that slimy, filthy layer covering her, that reminiscence of Créon's presence in her head, she registered a sharp flare-up of fury, hardly knowing if it came from him or from herself anymore – and then the layer was melting away, burning up in a furious fire. Snuggling into the flames gratefully, she enjoyed the sensation of having her head purged of Créon's horrors at last.

When she closed her eyes, she realized, it all became much clearer. She could almost see what he was doing. Right now, he was carefully, very carefully, sliding a sharp, red razorblade edge under that layer, separating it from her and wrapping something about it, yes, something dark, dull and rough, almost spiky, before he made it blaze up and dissolve.

She could do that, too, it occurred to her. Well, maybe not the setting fire to it, and there might be some difficulty with forming that spiky black pod or whatever it was, yet she could certainly do the cutting away. One thought from her, and his mind appeared in stark relief, the structures almost brushing against her. There was the same oily layer on top, something that did not belong there, a strange and sickening feeling. Picturing a needle before her mind's eye, she carefully poked at it, slipping below that layer. She gave it a tug, yet it would not budge. It seemed to be anchored quite firmly somehow. Another tug brought no result more satisfying, and she left it at that, not wanting to hurt him in any way. Because there was hurt already, a sense of rawness, like skin grazed open, and a sense of pain.

Her awareness of his feelings had even increased, she noticed. There was an additional sentiment now, a warm, gentle fondness which reached out to encompass her. As she examined it closer, she found that it was fed through what seemed to be tiny channels coming from much further down… Unable to resist her curiosity, she dived.

What she found seemed similar to the outlying emotions, only that everything seemed… heavier, stronger… and so much clearer. The surroundings were darkened, but at the same time, the warmth feeding the one above was a raging ocean of flames, and its light was blinding. So strong and hot that it was almost painful, it threatened to drown her in his passion, a passion so dire that it must torment him to contain it.

Good God, he truly loved her.

Withdrawing, she moved onward to something different, a darker fire… writhing, lashing, screaming tongues of blackness, flames that were spiky tentacles, howling to get out. She shivered, recognizing it for what it was: hatred, hatred of all the world.

There were several more pools of such emotions, yet what caught her attention was a small, secluded corner beneath them, almost hidden there. Slipping inside, she felt a sense of calm and quietness overcome her, as well as one of coolness, comforting after the previous heat. And it did not seem small anymore, quite the opposite. There was a buzzing filling it, or a scrabbling, or maybe a soft jostling; it was hard to describe. What was this? His rational centre, maybe? There was something inside it, many things, clear yet fragile – his thoughts? If she set herself to it, could she decipher them? Somehow they made her dizzy, their constant flow and their strange sense of transparency irritating her.

Instead, she slipped into what seemed to be a small, circular chamber in its middle, almost like a pod, that had escaped her notice earlier on. As soon as she was inside, however, she was surprised that she had not found it before; it seemed to lie at the centre of everything. There was an image inside it, dominating it, the slightly hazy and transparent image of a masked man in a flowing black cloak, slightly smoky at the edges, yet very clearly him. Everything was there, every detail, from the velvety folds of his cloak to the curls at the back of his head, a complete reflection of his self… yet when she looked closer, there was another image, too, blended with it, cloaked in black as well, but wearing no mask. And its features were those of a monster. The entire face was covered in dark scar tissue, much worse than the markings he truly bore, and the eyes were made of pure flame. The creature snarled at her, exposing a set of sharp teeth, and dimly, very dimly, as if far away, she felt herself tremble at the sight. So this was how he saw himself.

Who are you, she wondered, observing the creature with horrid fascination, and the answer was there clearly: OPERA GHOST. And, equally strong, or maybe even stronger: PHANTOM.

This was when she remembered another name, a name she had first heard only hours before. It was worth a try. _Erik_, she prompted.

Immediately the image before her changed. What she saw was clearly him, yet it was somehow different. The face was definitely his, except that it was not scarred. He was a man like any other now, laughing up at her, tall and handsome and graceful, and his eyes shone as he looked at her, a sparkling blue, without that sense of cold that usually filled them, that emotionless ice that was only ever replaced by dark, ardent fire. The name was there, too, somewhat pale, as if worn with uncertainty, but it was clear enough: ERIK. Why had she not seen it before?

Because it was buried deep inside him, she realized. All this she now saw was. This was not how she knew him, but what he could have been. What he might have been.

What he had once been, before he had fallen under the shadow.

She did not know how she had gotten that last idea, but suddenly it was there, and it felt somehow… right. _So you are my Angel of Music,_ she whispered to him. _I knew you existed._

He smiled at her, but there was regret in his eyes. _A fallen angel,_ he replied gently, sadly, _and far from Heaven…_

Suddenly everything about her dimmed, and the image before her dissolved into gently stirring mist. And then she found herself before the entrance to the chamber once more… but this time, it was locked. Mist swirled before her eyes when she tried to return to it. Sadly, she passed on, deeper down.

She found herself in what seemed to be the dark, yawning maw of an abyss, but she was not afraid to fall. On the contrary, she felt strangely light, as if she would float any moment. It was a warm, gentle darkness, and there were lights everywhere, lining its walls like stars in a night sky, receding into infinity.

Heavens, this was beautiful.

Curiously, she tapped one of those lights closest to her, and immediately images flashed up before her. She tried another, and the same happened. He and Meg, together in the living room. He and the dog, playing in front of the fire burning low. He and Raoul, watching each other warily from the darkness. When she tried some of the lights further down, the memories were not that fresh anymore. All four of them, coming back to his lair. Adhemar, glaring at him with utmost loathing. Créon. So many images of Créon. And Niobe, reaching out for him…

Suddenly she felt as if picked up by the scruff of her neck, and once again there was mist before her eyes. When she could see again, there was a wall between her and his memories.

She moved further down. There was darkness for some time, it seemed, a thick layer of darkness, but there was something ahead now, a pulsing sheen, drawing her towards it. And then she emerged from the darkness, and everything was filled with light, a stream of strong, warm, pulsing, flowing light running through him, through his entire body, his every vein. She had come down to his very core, to the source of life.

And as she settled down in the warmth beside that mighty stream, she knew that he was dong the same with her.

How long she rested there, beside his very soul, she did not know. When he spoke to her, his voice filling her mind, she felt like waking from deep sleep. _I think_, he told her gently, _that it's time for you to return. What you're doing there can get pretty addictive._

Opening her eyes slowly, Christine was faced with a moment's difficulty of settling back into reality. Nothing had changed; the fire was still at the edge of going out, the new dog still lay curled up over the boot, and the Phantom was still sitting on the back of the sofa, looking at her, his eyes glittering strangely in the semi-darkness. Had she really just been there, inside his head, and beheld all those marvels she had never seen before? Or had it just been a strange, beautiful dream?

The Phantom was smiling at her, and she turned her head away, blushing for sure. It had been a very intimate moment, she realized. On that night after the fateful performance of _Don Juan_, when first spending a night in Raoul's bedroom, she had thought she had experienced the closest anyone could ever get to her. But somehow, though in a much different way, this had felt even closer. It had been very far from physical, and it certainly had nothing to do with decency and indecency, as her adventure with Raoul – her cheeks heated some more at the thought – quite clearly had had, and very much so, but it had been intimate. It had been… a union of souls. There was no better expression.

Was there any way of sharing this with Raoul?

"I'm afraid not", the Phantom said. "Your skills at entering minds only work on me, because they were mine in the first place."

Now blushing furiously, Christine realized that he was still inside her head, and that he knew exactly what she had been thinking about. Did he know about what she and Raoul had done on that night, then?

"The answer to this is a yes", he said, a hint of mocking in his voice. "And, if you don't mind my saying so, it was not exactly all a man could do. In fact, it was rather ordinary."

Christine answered his gaze grimly, trying to keep her voice calm. "Get out of my head", she said sharply.

With a rueful little smirk, he did so; she felt his presence withdraw from her mind and diminish. "You know", he continued, "those two can be combined. While the boy just gave you a bit of pleasure, I can offer you a true, pure feeling of ecstasy."

"I don't want to hear about it."

"Consider it", he insisted. "I'm the only one who can offer you that."

"Raoul is enough for me", she answered firmly.

He shrugged. "I expected you might just say that. But if you want more… you know you're always welcome."

"I'd be grateful if you stopped offering me such things", Christine sighed. She might just have to tell Raoul that the Phantom was… No, better not. There would be nothing but trouble, and Raoul's already strongly strained patience wouldn't last much longer. But another fight between those two was the very last thing she wanted currently, so she left it at that. Yet maybe if he continued like this…

The Phantom's features did not reveal what he was thinking. "Very well. Let's get on with it, then." And there was no hint of any feelings in his voice, too, not even of disappointment. His eyes were glittering coldly in the dim glow of red from the fireplace, though.

Soon Christine lost track of the time passing while he searched through the outlying regions of her mind, occasionally muttering to himself. She was careful to supervise where he ventured, though; she would not permit him to go any deeper down once more. What exactly he was doing she did not know, even though he occasionally offered a word of explanation. But soon she was too tired to truly pay attention, and she did not quite understand what he was telling her. How heavy her eyelids felt! It must be about two in the morning, or three, at the latest, a time when she usually slept soundly under a warm blanket, instead of sitting on the sofa in the dark living room, and having the Phantom once again tamper with her mind, something she had hoped he would never get the chance to do again.

But still, this had to be done. They had to find a way of how to keep Créon out of her head – out of both of their heads. And the Phantom was the only one who could do it. Although she would have much preferred Raoul's protection, it was the Phantom whose side she wouldn't leave until he confirmed that Créon had been completely banished from her mind. Her eyelids were drooping more with every passing minute, it seemed to her, yet she was afraid to fall asleep, for fear she would be forced to witness again what that cruel usurper of her Angel's domain had made her see.

Yes, thinking of the Phantom as of her Angel once more made it easier, especially when recalling the image she had seen inside his mind, that one image showing what he might have been, had fate only been less cruel towards him. He could have been a colleague in the ensemble, it occurred to her. He could have been the Opera Populaire's lead tenor, instead of Piangi. He could have been a celebrated star, easily winning the hearts of all the ladies in the audience, as well as those of his female colleagues.

He might have won her own heart, as well.

Of course, she knew as good as nothing about his past. He had hardly ever spoken about himself. But maybe there was a way of bringing out what was buried deep inside him. Maybe she could convince him that deep down inside him, there was good.

Maybe he would be Erik for her.

Despite all her efforts, she was drifting over into sleep when he finally touched her shoulder and whispered, "I think I'm done."

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, stifling a yawn. How long had she been sitting here, battling slumber? She had no idea.

He sighed softly behind her. "As sure as I can be, under the circumstances. I shielded myself as well as I could, and I put some kind of guard over the connection, too, or whatever you want to call it, but I'm afraid we will only know if our efforts were not in vain when Créon tries his tricks with us again."

Christine shuddered. "This is not the way I'd like to find out."

"No. Neither would I." The gentle creaking behind her told her that he was shifting his weight on the perch he had chosen, right at her shoulder. "But we can give it another try, if you want. That's about all we can do."

Another try? Whatever it was, anything would be better than having Créon reappear in her dreams. "Let's do it, then", Christine agreed.

Climbing over the back of the sofa, he settled down beside her, yet he did not come nearly close enough to touch her, and she was glad for it. She wanted to have him with her, but not too close. Otherwise, she might be in danger of losing herself to him once more, and she would never do that again. Never. She had Raoul, and Raoul was sufficient. Raoul was all she wanted.

This time, entering his mind seemed much easier to her, yet as soon as she thought to catch the first glimpse of what was going on inside it, he suddenly had her trapped, wrapped up in a thick blanket of fog. She pushed against it hard, but it seemed that she was floating in emptiness now, and she could not feel him anymore. Though she knew that she must be inside his mind, the awareness of him was completely gone from her head.

Where had he suddenly gotten to?

_I have you now_, his voice came from the swirling mass of mist around her, teasing her. _While you lose all sense of orientation and can't go rummaging around in my head, I have free and complete access to yours, without you really noticing._

_Oh, that's wicked of you_, she thought as relief flooded her. He could do it. He could do it! There was no way for Créon to get past him at her now!

_Yes, isn't it?_ The mist around her dissolved, and once again she could feel him, and she realized that she had not even gotten as far as the outmost regions of his mind. And there was a barrier now where that oily layer had been before. If this only worked with Créon and his minions, that… _monster_ would never bother them again!

She wanted to withdraw once more, but again her curiosity got the better of her. What was that before her, that… thing shimmering just out of reach? It was beyond the barrier, on the same side she was on, so it could not quite belong inside his mind… or could it? Approaching it carefully, she saw that it was hovering right above the barrier, as if waiting for a chance to enter. And it was not part of him.

What was it, then? It was a strange thing; bright red it appeared to her and round as a ball, yet bristling with spikes of all sizes. Cautiously she reached out to prod it –

_Christine!_

– made contact with it –

_Christine, no!_ She was jerked back into reality just as a sensation of heat and colours exploded inside her head, making her dizzy for a moment. At first her head swam, and her surroundings were smoothly sliding in and out of focus, but then, slowly, the world reasserted itself, and she found herself still sitting on the sofa, just as if nothing had happened.

"Are you alright?" There was concern in his voice, as well as showing on his face.

"I'm fine, thank you." It was a pretty face, actually, very pleasant to look at.

Still he appeared doubtful. "Are you certain?"

"Absolutely." Heavens, he was tempting. Suddenly she was feeling very… _forward_. And his closeness was so intoxicating… Surely it wouldn't hurt if she…? Just once?

No. No, what was she thinking there? She was engaged to Raoul! She couldn't just –

Just this one time. Leaning over to him, she brushed the back of her hand over his unmasked cheek, giggling softly at the look of surprise which came over his face. Curse the boy, but he was just lovely. Moving closer to him, she threaded her fingers into the curls at the back of his head, while with the other hand she took him by the front of his shirt, pulling him towards her. He did not resist.

As their lips met, she felt the heat from before surge through her with a hunger she barely knew. She wanted him more than she could imagine, and she wanted him here and now. He was hers, her very own. All her doubts, all her fears, all her pledges of love to another man were in the past, paling rapidly against what was ruling her mind now. They might return later on, especially her love for another man, but tonight, she was having _this one_.

Quickly she snatched his mask off, too fast for him to interfere, and dropped it onto the floor, well out of his reach. As he tried to shield his scars with his hand, she pulled it away, covering his cheek with her own. The Devil's Touch… It made him even more tempting.

Oh, this suffocating, suffocating heat!

She pushed him down onto his back firmly, so that his shoulders were against the sofa's padded armrest. This time he struggled feebly, but she slapped his interfering hand out of her way determinedly. Trying to be coy, now was he? She was having none of that nonsense. Either he participated, or else he learned to lie still. Taking a seat on his stomach, she bent to kiss the side of his neck, drawing in his scent as she did so. Not bad, indeed not bad. She was going to enjoy this. As she bit him, he winced slightly, yet when she began sucking the side of his neck, right above where she could feel his pulse with her lips, he gave a low growl of pleasure. So he liked this after all.

They all did, sooner or later. If you only handled them correctly, they all did, even this intriguingly defiant lad.

Of course, he had a special reason to agree with this way of being ravished, and she did not like this reason at all. But it would be much easier to truly claim him later on if she succeeded in putting him down now, in whatever way.

Licking all the way up to his earlobe, which she nibbled gently for a moment, and then back down to his collarbone, she listened to his ragged breath and occasional growls with satisfaction. How easily he yielded suddenly! She would not have thought that he would ever do so, not of his own free will. But now, after only a minute, she already had him where she wanted him.

Excellent. She could start feasting on him immediately, then.

Dragging his shirt off him presented her with no difficulty at all; he even helped her doing it. He really was quite lovely, especially when eyed in that dim, reddish light, well-muscled and smooth-skinned, exactly what she appreciated in her bed. She ran her hands over him a few times, basking in her own triumph. By now he had thrown his head back, exposing his throat to her, and she felt the corners of her mouth wander upwards into a little smirk all of their own accord as she noticed it. So he was truly submitting to her, then. Good boy. Bending over him once more, she grazed his throat with her teeth, felt it vibrate under her as he growled once more. His arms came around her, and he held her close, his hands wandering up and down over her back. He would make no more move to get away now. He was hers.

High time to enter his mind, then. Gently loosening his grip on her, she reached for the buttons of his trousers, while at the same time she reached out with her mind, about to make her domination complete –

At once his hands were around her wrists, holding her firmly. "Christine, don't! You don't know what you are doing!" Still his breath was ragged, and his expression was pained. It was obvious how he was loath to interrupt her. "You will hate me for it tomorrow, and yourself!"

Oh, the foolish boy! The innocent, pathetic young fool! "Don't get bothersome, pretty Erik. Whatever you do, and however you try to protect that girl of yours, I'll still have you, no matter how I do it, if through her or not."

"Christine!" he cried, his eyes lighting up with a wildfire of fury. And then he was inside her head, delving, cutting and hacking away, as with a knife…

There was a flash of pain, and she collapsed on top of him, whimpering. Oh God, what had happened? Why did her head feel so hazy suddenly? What was going on? Surely she hadn't just –

With a little scream, she recoiled from him, hugging herself. Luckily she was still wearing her nightshirt. "Get out of my head!" she hissed at him. "Right now! What do you think you're doing?"

"Christine, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I was just –" He sat up, reaching for her hand, but she backed away from him as far as possible, thereby brushing against the low living room table. "Christine, I –"

"I told you to get out!" This was what came from trusting him; he had been manipulating her again! Was this how he repaid her for saving him?

"But Niobe, she's still inside your head!" He, too, was on his feet by now, and coming towards her.

"I've had enough of all your disgusting lies!" she snapped at him. "Leave me alone!"

She had backed into the wall, and he was right before her now, reaching out for her. "But she's –"

Bringing up her own hand, she slapped him as hard as she could. The way he staggered backwards in surprise certainly gave her a grim feeling of satisfaction. Maybe she should have done so earlier already; it might have helped, or at least it would have shown him that she was not as weak as he kept assuming she was.

"Will you at least listen to me?" Apart from the tone of strained patience in his voice, his manner revealed nothing about just having been hit. "Believe me or not, but you have Niobe inside your head, because you wouldn't listen when I told you not to touch that thing trying to get into mine. And you'll need me to remove her for you, or else you'll probably be in for a few more unpleasant surprises."

God, he must be right! So _that_ was what she had found preying on him, waiting just outside his mind, searching for a way in. She should not have touched it. She should not have tried to touch his mind a second time at all. Once was more than enough already. "How long have you known?" she asked quietly.

"I… I'm not sure." The way he almost squirmed under her gaze showed how uncomfortable he was suddenly. How long had he really known? From the very beginning?

He could have stopped her earlier on! "You've known it all along, you pervert!" Once again she hit him, her fist connecting with the side of his jaw painfully, and once again he made no move to stop her. "You've known she's inside me, but you let yourself be fondled just because you enjoyed it so much! And now you're happy to rummage through my head once more, digging up every detail of any interest to you!"

"Quiet!" he hissed. "You're waking up all the house, shouting like that!"

"I'll call Raoul", she threatened, and she truly felt like doing so – but first she would deal with him on her own.

"You won't!"

"Don't tell me what I will and won't!" The nerve of him, standing there half naked and acting as if he had done nothing wrong! The wild fury boiling inside her made her use her fist on him once more, and this time she dug it into his stomach – or at least she tried to, because he saw the blow coming and flexed his muscles just in time – she saw them shift under his skin –, and her fist practically bounced off him, probably hurting him, yet doing not as much damage by far as she had intended. "I'm so sick of you and your manipulations! You don't care at all how I feel; all you're interested in is having your hands all over me!" And to think that there had been a time when she had trusted him blindly…

And to think that she had found good in him, only a short time ago… It must have been an illusion, nothing but a dream.

"When you're done hitting me and blaming me for everything", he said through gritted teeth, his chest heaving heavily, "you might at least let me deal with your Niobe problem for a moment."

His face lay in the shadows, but the scars covering the right side of his face, his excuse for everything, were visible clearly enough. She remembered the image she had seen inside his head. How those scars mirrored his very soul! "Get away from me, monster!" she snarled.

What she had apparently not succeeded in doing with all her physical strength was achieved by one single word: He froze, his features showing deep, strong pain for a moment, before he turned sharply and headed away from her, only stopping at the fireplace, at the opposite side of the room. She had managed to wound him at last.

Part of her anger at him evaporated, leaving satisfaction. At last she had given him back what he deserved.

But as she looked at him now, standing by the fireplace with his back turned to her, with hanging head and sagging shoulders, another image came back to her mind, one which had lain hidden until she had called for it. And oh, that sadness in his eyes… Already she was feeling ashamed of her outburst. Of course it had been necessary to state her opinion clearly, but this… this had just been irrational, and not entirely fair. Especially those last words.

She swallowed. "Erik…" He did not react. "Erik, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you a monster." Still there was no reaction from him; he acted as if he had not heard her at all. "Erik, please –"

"Yes, what?" he snarled very suddenly, turning on his heel to face her across the room. "What else do you want? Tell me to go and never come back? Don't worry, I'll be gone by tomorrow morning. You'll never have to see my loathsome face again."

"No, Erik, I didn't –"

"You made your point quite clear", he interrupted her coldly. "And you're right, I should have seen it earlier on that Niobe was messing with you, I'm a monster, and it's past time I was gone."

"Erik…"

"Why do you call me so?" he asked sharply. "What does my past matter to you?"

"You were not always like this", she answered quietly. "I saw your true self, just a short time ago. But you have completely forgotten it."

Equally quietly, he replied, "This is not what I am. Erik is dead. He died on that night on the rooftop, when you swore to love another man. All that is left is me."

"Look, I really didn't mean it", she tried it again. "I was just angry at you, and I didn't think. Of course, you gave me every reason to", she added sternly, trying to give her voice the same tone Madame Giry's got frequently, "and there are some things I'm still angry at you for, but I didn't mean you were a monster. Please acknowledge it at last." But this was the last time she told him! She would not beg him to forgive her on her knees!

There was a brief pause, then he came towards her again, but stopped with the table still between them. He was not looking at her, but at his own feet. "Don't apologize", he said, so softly that it was hardly audible. "It is I who should ask, no, beg for your forgiveness, and I wouldn't even deserve it. I should have realized earlier on that this couldn't possibly be you, instead of just lying there without a conscious thought. I used you, all the time. I told you there were two things I didn't mention, remember? The second is what Niobe did to me, when she had me in her hands. She put me in something like a trance, so I was drawn towards her and couldn't fight her, and she stroked and fondled me all she liked, and she wanted me to – Oh well, you can probably imagine what she wanted. I did the same to you, all the time, I forced my attentions on you without you being able to fend me off. I'm no better than her. And all the time I loved you, and still I did what I did, because all I could think of was me, and I never even asked you if you wanted me near you at all." There was loathing in his voice, contempt and loathing, directed at himself. "If you hate Niobe, you must hate me as well, because I did the same. Because I'm just the same!" He came a little closer, yet still he left the table between them. "I'm asking your forgiveness, although I know it is too much to ask of you, and you can never forgive all I did to you. But if you still feel pity for the wretched creature that I am, you might at least try." He fell silent, still not looking at her.

Regarding him, she drew a calming breath. Everything she had expected of him, but not this. She had thought he would never admit that he had done her wrong, but once again, he had surprised her. He was right, forgiving him might be very hard, but… Heavens, what was that large dark spot on his side? "What's this?" she asked. "That bruise? Did I just do this to you?"

"This? No." He waved it away dismissively, bending to pick up his mask and shirt again. "That was just Adhemar, when he kicked me. Never mind about it."

Of course, it could not possibly have been her. Her bad conscience about calling him a monster was making her act foolishly. "I will try", she told him, "for the sake of all you gave to me before you… did what you did. But I will need some time for it."

"You have all the time in the world." Already masked, pulling his shirt back on, he added, "But would you let me remove Niobe for you now? Please, Christine. I don't mean any more harm. It's my fault I didn't stop you in time, anyway. But I have to get her out of your mind."

At first she hesitated to give her consent, but then, at last, she nodded. She had no choice.

"Come on, then", he said gently. "You had better sit down for it." He hesitated briefly. "And Christine… thank you for everything."

Again she settled down on the sofa, but this time he did not sit beside her, but remained standing, and she was grateful for it. It was better if they kept some distance between each other for some time. "I might not trust the Phantom", she told him as he knelt down before her and closed his eyes, ready to once again search her head for traces of intruders, "but I may yet come to love Erik as I would love a brother. And I truly hope you will not do with your second chance what you did with your first."

He bowed his head. "Thank you", he whispered.

This time, it was painful. Although Christine was sure that the Phantom was not trying to hurt her, the minutes which passed until he told her that it was over were among the most tormenting she could recall in her entire life. And from the way his lips were pressed together while he did it, she could easily tell that he was aware of it, and that it pained him just as well.

At last he withdrew from her mind, and she remained crouched in a corner of the sofa, sobbing softly to herself. A bit awkwardly, he reached up to stroke her cheek, murmuring soothing words, but as this did not help, he sang to her softly.

"_Sì, per ciel marmoreo giuro,  
Per le attorte folgori,  
Per la Morte e per l'oscuro mar sterminator:  
D'ira e d'impeto tremendo  
Presto fia che sfolgori  
Questa man ch'io levo e stendo,  
Dio vendicator!_"

His voice calmed her a bit, and what he had chosen even made her smile a little. Niobe would have to answer for this.

"Come", he said softy, carefully picking her up. "I'm taking you to someone who can comfort you better than I can." He carried her all the way up the stairs to Raoul's room, where he laid her down gently on the bed, beside her fiancé, who stirred and murmured something in his sleep, but did not wake, and pulled the blanket over her, making sure she was warm. Then he bent to kiss her forehead briefly and tenderly brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "Sleep well, child", he whispered. "You need not be afraid anymore."

She smiled up at him before she closed her eyes, snuggling against Raoul. "Good night, Erik."


	47. III No Use resisting

**III. No Use resisting**

Claude attempted to hold the gaze of the man before him, but that one single blue eye, cold as winter's heart, bored through his skull, into his mind, his very soul. "Do you wonder why I do this?" the man rumbled gently, his voice just as cold as his one terrible eye. "Yes, you do. They all do. Because they don't understand. And they never will. You common worms crawling in the dust will never understand the meaning of true greatness."

Claude clenched his teeth. Yes, what was it this man wanted, he and all those others? And what did he and his colleagues have to do with this? The guesses he and Serge had ventured had not provided the satisfying answer he truly craved for. He only hoped that the other three had found a way out, and that they would bring about his cruel captor's downfall.

He did not hope for his own life. Not anymore.

"It seems you have guessed something", the man continued impassively. "Yes, I can see it inside you. You are easy to read, like all the others of the common kind. You cannot even fight me. Those of a worthier blood, my kin, can, yet even _their_ struggles are useless in the end. I am the Leader of the Lost Ones, the Master of the Fateless, and the King of the Catacombs."

A fitting kingdom, Claude thought, for a man so sinister that he seemed to have sprung from a dark myth. But this still did not answer any of his questions.

"The time will come when the world will see that in the end, none will withstand me. No power in this world."

He is mad, thought the stage carpenter, he is clearly mad. But he was not going to just stand before him as if paralyzed with fear, even if his back was against the wall and the man's cold eye was just inches from his own, filling his entire vision, so it seemed. As long as he was still on his feet, he would stand straight and tall, even if his ankle was throbbing and keeping himself upright was an effort, and he would not grovel for a madman. "When you are so great and mighty", Claude said, forcing his voice to remain calm, "why do you need the Phantom so desperately, then?"

At first it seemed that his captor was not going to answer. But then, at last, he replied, softly and distantly, "There is an old legend, as old as mankind itself. For at the time when mankind arose, there lived yet another kind, of which mankind is but a dim reflection. Their splendour and glory is still remembered in the tales of the Age of Gold. But this blessed age was ended. Many stories, many myths tell of the end of the Old Order, when the Bearer of the Light claimed the Ever-Burning Flame his own, of the War of the Powers, which then began, the great war which tore the world asunder, and of how the Bearer of the Light was defeated in the end and cast down into the Abyss, where he chose darkness to make it his own."

"The Bearer of the Light?" Claude could have laughed. "You must mean Lucifer. I know that story. He and his companions were all sent to Hell."

"There are many stories", the one-eyed villain replied cryptically, "and many names. And not all those who rebelled were bound in the Abyss. For when the war was deemed over, another power arose, though shrouded in secrecy. The Herald of Fate was among the greatest of his kind, and dreaded as well as adored, for while one of his eyes, the Eye of the Light, beheld the living earth, the other, the Eye of the Shadow, pierced the veil of death and watched over the spirit world. He decided to bring to an end what the Bearer of the Light had begun, and he had followers among his kind, lesser as well as greater. His most faithful supporter was the Lady of Dreams, who like no-one else could rule a man's heart and soul by playing with his passions and desires. It is said that she travelled the wind and the wild waves, searching for those she would bind to her, and that when night fell, few could withstand the power of her mind.

"So the Herald of Fate and the Lady of Dreams led an army towards the dwelling of their own blood once more, a much smaller army, yet nonetheless a threat, and it is said that their banners were made of material darkness, of the very essence of shadow. But their numbers were few, and strong ramparts and towers and bulwarks had been erected to bar out the night, and there was the Keeper of the Gates. He, too, was powerful among his kind, and fair of face, and gifted with many talents. Some records name him the court-bard of the masters of his blood, some the architect of the Pillars of Heaven. We cannot say for certain now. He served the light loyally, yet he was known to possess a reckless spirit otherwise, and he seduced many a maiden of the mortal kind with sweet song and then bent her to his will. The most passionate of lovers, stories sometimes call him, yet cold at heart. Yet as fate wanted it, this time he had lost his heart to a fair child among those of earth, yet she refused to be swayed by his pledges of undying love, for she had set her eyes upon a mortal man. Still, he could have had her easily, yet he craved to be loved by her of her own free will.

"This was when the Herald of Fate approached him. He offered the Keeper of the Gates to change the girl's fate for him, luring him with her heart. And for her love, the Keeper of the Gates forsook his duties and opened the gates of Heaven for the Army of the Night. Yet he had been betrayed, for the Herald of Fate had destroyed the woman the Keeper of the Gates had loved, taunting him with his being the only connection to the spirit world, where she now resided, so the Keeper of the Gates would serve him better. But the Keeper of the Gates would not be fooled, and as he perceived that he had lost everything, he chose rather to destroy himself and find the maiden of his heart beyond the skies than to serve the Herald of Fate's rebellion any longer, and he cast himself into the Ever-Burning Flame, thus becoming the first of his kindred to die.

"And without him, the rebellion failed. And for punishment, the Herald of Fate and the Lady of Dreams and all their supporters were shorn of their powers and cast out into the world, to be reborn time and time again among the mortal kind, until the end of days, when the Age of Gold would come anew, and so was the spirit of the Keeper of the Gates, who had forsaken his allegiance and broken all oaths for his unhappy love. Marked as outcasts even among a lesser kind, they were doomed to misery, while their history slowly faded to myth and was forgotten. They became the Lost Ones, cast out from Heaven, and the Fateless, denied their place in the world."

For a moment the man was silent, and his voice echoed in Claude's head. Then, much softer, he continued. "Yet it is said that the time would come when the Lost Ones would rise anew and the Army of the Night would march again, and that if they stood united, and if, this time, the Keeper of the Gates took his place at the Herald of Fate's side, this new rebellion would succeed where the old ones failed. The Pillars of Heaven would fall, and the Circle of Ages would be broken, so it is written, and night would descend unto the earth."

Claude shuddered as he fell silent at last. He had understood. There was shadow unfathomable in the Herald of Fate's one shining eye.

"Our time has come at last", the man whispered, as if secretly appreciating the sound of these words. "_My_ time. And there is only one I now need to make my designs complete. Long have we searched for him, but now he can no longer hide. And he will serve me this time, and fulfil his destiny at last.

"But so has yours, lowly worm. I have no more need for you now. The man to stand at my right hand at the end of times will come to me; I have seen that he will. In his mind he is still resisting, yet once again I will trap him by trapping his heart. He will find that there is no point in resisting. The Age of Night has come at last."

Claude watched in horror as the man slowly reached up to untie the bandage around his head, the bandage covering the place were a mighty blow with a blade had obviously destroyed his right eye. Yet when the bandage was gone, he saw that the socket was not empty.

It was the last thing he beheld as the King of the Catacombs' other eye bored down to the bottom of his soul. He felt how his mind was grasped by an invisible hand, and the lights of the fires dimmed, and he went into darkness, and to what lay beyond.


	48. IV You try my Patience

**IV. You try my Patience**

Adhemar was watching Niobe warily, yet his pulse still raced when his hungry gaze fell upon her. He knew what she was playing at. And it annoyed him to no end, though the outcome of her little game, and her reaction to it, was fit to give him at least some satisfaction.

She had deserved that.

At first, when she had lured him off into the corridor, and further into a side chamber, he had considered to refuse her; after all, he did not want to just serve as substitute for another man, especially not if the place by Niobe's side had successfully been claimed by him for the last few months. Yet the trouble was that he still wanted her.

And even more, he admitted to himself, that if she decided to want him, she would take no refusal.

It had begun just as usual, with her throwing him down on his back and demanding submission. Normally, and with any other woman, Adhemar was not the man to do so. But with her, he did so immediately, very eager to please her.

He had no choice.

He had enjoyed her attentions, her hands and lips all over him, as he always did, though he would have preferred to find himself in a more dominant position. At times she had let him, yet he had gotten used to the fact that whatever he tried, he would always end up on his back in the end. Niobe valued dominance far too much.

He wondered who didn't, among their kind. They all strived to be in control. Even Atrox and Ferox did, though their own mental powers were weak. Even Lionel had probably done so. Probably. There was not much Adhemar had known about Lionel; the man – and it was hard somehow to think of Lionel as such – had always shied the light.

Except Aeternus, maybe. But Aeternus was a queer fellow, and in more than one way. He had those two servants he had acquired recently, trailing him wherever he went, the brother and son of a past sweetheart, as far as Adhemar knew, and he always hid his right hand. Well, maybe his touch was truly… contagious in some way. At least his disfigurement, a highly uncommon one, as it seemed, was called the Touch of Pestilence. But who could say if this truly was so, apart from the Master and Aeternus himself, and maybe Niobe? No, probably not Niobe, Aeternus seemed to keep himself away from her for some reason. It was not that he shunned a woman's affections; Adhemar had come to learn this in the twenty years he had known the man. Aeternus seemed to have reasons of his own. He always had.

Who had Aeternus been once, at the dawn of time? Adhemar sometimes wondered. He did not know who he himself had been, not yet, but somehow he was quite certain Aeternus did. When he had asked him, Aeternus had claimed to have some memories of what had once been, and Adhemar tended to believe him. He only hoped that he would remember, too, and soon. Until now, in the ninety-six years of his life – which was not exactly long, he had to admit – there had been no memories, no visions from another age. There had only been odd dreams, but those were common enough. Everybody got them, even Ferox and Atrox. Even Lionel had had them at times, he guessed.

Bertrand knew, and so did Niobe. Of course Niobe did. There was no reason to doubt her words, just as there was no reason to doubt the story his Master had told him, a long time ago. At the time of the Second Rebellion, Niobe had stood at the Master's right hand.

All the same, this did not justify what game she had been playing with him until a short time ago. Not until she had desisted from him with an angry snarl had he realized that it was not him she was interested in, but that new boy everybody was so excited about. She had found some way to get at him, apparently using that girl the young fool adored so much, but she had not succeeded… and as soon as she had failed with the boy, Adhemar had not been interesting anymore. She had just used him, nothing more. She was through with him.

And all because of that useless –

No. No, the Master needed him, this Erik or Phantom or whatever his name was. And if the Master needed him, then they all needed him.

Obedience was harder than usual tonight.

Niobe was standing beside him, but ignoring him completely and staring straight ahead into the gloom. She had been doing so for half an hour at the very least, and he had just stood and waited. Why? There was no sense in it. But still he had done so, still he had waited for an order to come. Thoughtlessly, Adhemar toyed with his dagger belt. No orders yet. From nobody.

"I will yet have him", Niobe suddenly said. "However hard he struggles, I will have him, and bend him to my will."

"This is the Master's privilege", Adhemar reminded her. "Not yours."

For the first time since she had desisted from him, Niobe turned to face him, and her dark eyes were like smouldering charcoals. "Indeed? But among the two of us, it is I who know how to get at sweet little Erik, not him."

Sweet little Erik? Adhemar almost snorted. That large brute? What had gotten into his former lover, acquiring such a bad taste so suddenly? "Yet you failed", he said coldly. "Perhaps you should take that into consideration."

"Not the next time – you common lout." And she turned on her heel and strode away, obviously fuming, back towards their encampment, leaving Adhemar to glare after her, his hands clenching into fists.

My patience is running out, my love. The next time I see your sweet little Erik, I'm going to make him suffer as he has never suffered before… or only once, if he truly is who we must hope he is…


	49. BOOK EIGHT: The Banner of Vengeance

**Book Eight: The Banner of Vengeance**

I. The Strength to try  
II. The Power of the Music of the Night  
III. When will the Flames at last consume us?  
IV. The Voice which calls to me  
V. One Companion  
VI. We've decided  
VII. Where Night is blind  
VIII. Nothing can harm you

Author's Note: _As usual, thanks to all who reviewed. Special thanks to Anya – some of the longest and most detailed reviews I ever got!_

_Musician of the Night: Getting it published? I guess it would have to be based solely on the book for that, because Andrew Lloyd Webber probably wouldn't appreciate me using some of his stuff. But thanks for your trust in me. ) Yep, and here goes the new Book. ;)_

_Bea: Well, that's women to you… ;-)_

_Sbkar__: How did you know I like those cookies:)_

_Drujan__: Thanks for the compliment. In fact, I got the union of souls idea from my sister's soundtrack booklet, where Joel Schumacher (at least I think it was him) says that the relationship between Christine and the Phantom is a very sexual and soulful union._

_Anya__: Would you like me to hand you a certificate saying you own Sándor? ;) Once again, thank you for your marvellous reviews. Of course, the Phantom won't just be an elder brother to Christine. That would be far too simple. With that connection, they can't only be brother and sister. And about all that mystery stuff… snicker There'll be more… I like to give stories an epic background, and not only because I started in the fantasy genre (which must be quite obvious by now g). It gives a story so much more depth, just like all the Silmarillion references do in The Lord of the Rings._

_Oh, and if anyone of you would like to have some homemade Phantom-themed desktops, just e-mail me about it. My sister and I have created 70 so far, with loads of scenes and characters and quotes and all. Make sure to mention what you expect them to look like, and I'll send some fitting ones over. They're all between about 70 and 180 KB in size, with 1024x768 measurements, and in JPEG format._


	50. I The Strength to try

**I. The Strength to try**

Raoul was up early the next morning, long before Christine, who hardly stirred when he got up. Yet still the Phantom beat him to the bathroom.

His rival was already dressed, Raoul saw, in his usual black trousers, probably the same he had worn the day before, but he had exchanged his dark blue shirt for a loose-fitting white one, just like Raoul used to wear them. Somehow that was oddly disconcerting, wearing the same kind of shirts as the Phantom. Shaving in front of the bathroom mirror, his mask lying on the wash-basin, the Phantom hardly acknowledged Raoul's presence at all, only by a very slight inclination of his head.

Raoul scowled at him. Another day ruined. "I hope this is not my razor", he stated pointedly.

Turning around sharply, the Phantom at once stood facing him, and his eyes were piercing blue icicles. Despite his resolution not to wince, Raoul did just that, yet not because of the Phantom's unpleasantly scarred face, but because of the sharp blade suddenly held under his nose. It was not a proper razor, Raoul noted now, but a thin-bladed and very sharp-edged knife. "Does this look like your razor to you?" the Phantom drawled.

Raoul swallowed, but regained his composure pretty quickly. "No, luckily not. Point that thing somewhere else."

"I won't let you detain me, don't worry", the Phantom answered lightly, the tone of contempt rather obvious in his voice.

"What are you doing up here, anyway? There's a bathroom on the first floor as well."

"Yes, and the first floor is swarming with servants already, just as the ground floor. Any more stupid questions?"

Raoul sighed, grinding his teeth. That was definitely a point. "Right, get finished here and come to my room", he said, then went to fetch a bowl of water to do the necessary washing somewhere else.

Later on, when heading downstairs to see if there truly were as many servants around as the Phantom had claimed – in fact there was just one single maid busy on the first floor, but still, even one maid was one too many as far as the Phantom was concerned – he encountered the butler on the stairs. With nothing more than a curt nod, he wanted to pass the man by, yet the butler stopped him, bowing, yet wearing a smile altogether too unpleasant to be allowed, and handed him a letter. Raoul studied it closer as he made his way down to the living room. It was addressed to him in a large, flowing hand he knew only too well.

Cursing under his breath, he opened the envelope and fished out a folded sheet of paper covered in the same handwriting. His heart sank down to the pit of his stomach. _My dear son_, he read, a sense of foreboding uncomfortably strong on his mind, _I hope you are well, although you certainly do not deserve it. The news which have just reached me from a loyal person inside the city mansion are most disgraceful, and I must ask you to change your style of living immediately._ Raoul swallowed. Oh my. _I have learned that you not only claim to be engaged to a young woman, which is of course nonsense, since we have not been informed of any such thing, but that said young woman – under these circumstances, I refuse to call her a lady – does not only live under the same roof as you, but that you also let her sleep in your room. This is most indecent, and I forbid you to do any such thing in the future. Moreover, we will be coming to town next week, and if I find that indeed you have been behaving as I have been informed, you will have much to answer for. Mind your behaviour in the near future, for your own sake. Your loving Mother._

Loving mother! Indeed! Hurrying to the kitchen to deposit his orders for breakfast, and informing the cook that they would be eating up at his room, Raoul then returned to where he had started out from, snorting furiously. As if that bloody Créon was not enough! Why did his mother have to add to his troubles? Good grief, he was not a child anymore! And his mother might well mind her own business and behaviour, for a change!

Fuming, he stomped into his room and kicked the door shut behind him, brandishing the offending letter. "Today's a foul day", he stated, leaning against the door, as if he could keep out all his troubles this way.

Christine and Meg, both in dressing gowns, were sitting on the bed, frowning up at him. Christine seemed to be still in her nightdress under the flannel gown, while trouser legs stuck out from under the rim of Meg's. Raoul inwardly shook his head. Nothing against the girl, but she was beginning to carry it too far – even if she looked rather good in a man's clothes.

No, he shouldn't be thinking like this. He was engaged to Christine, after all.

"Bad news?" the Phantom asked lightly. He was leaning against the wall, and despite standing upright somehow managing to convey the sense of lounging. Still he was in his white shirt, not wearing a jacket to go with it, just like Raoul was doing currently, but his hair was brushed neatly back once more.

"My mother", Raoul replied curtly, shoving the letter into his pocket forcefully. And with a look at Christine, he added, "She hasn't changed one bit. Completely spoiled my day again."

"Oh dear", Christine said sympathetically. After all, she had seen several of his mother's fits of temper, many years ago. Luckily they had never been directed at her.

"What's wrong with your mother?" Meg asked.

Raoul grimaced. "She's a nightmare."

"Scared of your mother, are you?" At least the Phantom's remark was delivered not in that horrible jeering manner of his, but in a tone of slight mocking instead.

Still, he had better hold his tongue about Raoul's troubles, as he, in fact, formed a rather large part of them. "I wish you'd meet her", Raoul muttered, imagining his mother putting the Phantom firmly back in his place. It helped. "She'd give you a run for your money, pal."

"Sounds good", the Phantom stated sarcastically. "Make sure you introduce us, once the occasion allows it."

Raoul imagined this, too. "You know", he grinned, "that might actually be quite amusing."

They were interrupted by the cook's arrival, and the Phantom was sent to hide under the bed for a moment, and his things wandered into Raoul's cupboard, while two maids brought in several large trays containing all of Raoul's breakfast favourites, strictly supervised by the cook, and laid out Raoul's desk as breakfast table. The cook did not quite seem to approve, yet Raoul did not care. She could look as disapproving as she wanted, but at least he could be sure that it was not her who had informed his mother of what was going on between him and Christine.

When they were alone again, and the Phantom had crawled back out from under the bed, brushing himself off while Meg giggled, they all settled around Raoul's desk. Since the room did not only contain an additional chair, but also a little couch, this was, in fact, quite easy. Raoul made sure that the Phantom did not sit on the couch with Christine, but to his great surprise, he never even tried to. While the girls took the couch, Raoul was given the pleasure of sitting beside the Phantom, opposite them. Again, it was quite easy to ensure that he himself sat opposite Christine.

As he cast his neighbour a sideward glance of suspicion while shoving an additional plate and some cutlery over at him – somehow he did not like the idea of cutlery, or any pointy devices, in the Phantom's hands –, he suddenly noticed a rather interesting red mark at the side of the Phantom's neck, quite similar to that the villain had had the audacity to leave on Christine's. So Meg seemed to have appreciated his company, after all.

Well, some women's tastes were definitely strange. But all the same, maybe it was better if he still kept an eye open as far as Meg was concerned.

But on the other hand… If the Phantom chose to busy himself with Meg, and if Meg gave her consent to his doing so, and even, as it seemed, encouraged him… then maybe he would stay away from Christine.

Maybe this day was not that bad, after all.

With newfound courage, Raoul speared a piece of fried bacon with his fork and beamed at Christine. "Not quite awake yet, my sweet?"

Christine gave him a tired, but loving little smile. "I haven't slept as much as I could have wished for." For an instant, her eyes flickered towards the Phantom, but it was too short a moment for Raoul to be certain.

"Well, you can get back to bed after breakfast, if you wish", Raoul announced. "And the same goes for you, Meg." It might have been a short night for her, whatever she had exactly been doing with her newfound sweetheart.

"Get back to bed?" Meg exclaimed, dropping her buttered bread roll onto her lap in surprise. Obviously it landed with the buttered side downwards, just like those things tended to do, as Raoul knew from his own experience, because she added, "Oh, _damn_!"

Immediately Christine started brushing at Meg's lap with a napkin, and Meg started brushing at the same time, which resulted in a slight chaos at the other side of the table. Raoul bit back a snicker. It would not be polite to laugh at something like that.

The Phantom, however, once again proved that he had no manners, because he chuckled quite shamelessly and did not even stop when Meg stabbed at him with her fork.

"Sorry", Raoul said, just in case Meg was going to blame him for her little accident, but used the opportunity to snatch a few slices of cheese from the plate by the girls'. Surely Christine wouldn't mind if he had a helping, too.

"Never mind", Meg answered conciliatorily, but added, with a glare at the Phantom, "I wish I had a great big toasting fork."

"I can arrange that", Raoul grinned. A lovely image formed in his head, of Meg chasing the Phantom through the house with an enormous set of cutlery, and this time he was tried quite hard not to snicker.

"Oh, Raoul!" Christine cried suddenly. "You can't put mustard on this!"

Raoul frowned, a spoonful of mustard poised above his plate. "Why not?"

"Because mustard isn't meant to be put on cheese sandwiches!"

"Who says?" Raoul protested. Yes, his mother said that, too. But he _liked_ mustard on cheese sandwiches! Oh, his bloody mother, and the bloody Phantom, and the bloody, bloody Lost Ones!

Besides, they were distracting him from what he had really wanted to tell them. After all, plans had to be made for today. And it was best when the girls learned as early as possible where their places would be: back home, sitting safely in the living room in front of the fireplace, spending a pleasant, quiet day.

But before he could say anything else, there came a knock at the door, and the cook poked her head in. "Excuse me, but there is a lady at the door, a Madame Giry, and there are three men with her, and she says that she needs to see you immediately." She frowned at this; Raoul knew that she didn't like anyone else to be stern and order others around.

"Show her in, please", Raoul answered straight away. "Right up to my room." And as he noticed how the cook's eyes wandered towards the Phantom, he added, "Let him be my problem."

"I guess I am", the Phantom muttered, as the cook retreated, and Raoul had to smile at that, though he hurriedly added an agonized roll of his eyes, just on general principle.

"Do you think there is something wrong?" Meg asked worriedly. "I mean, why else would my mother come?"

"And that early in the morning?" Christine added.

Raoul pulled his watch from his pocket and gave it a quick glance. "It's not early, darling", he chuckled, "it's going on ten o'clock."

"All the same, Raoul. Opera people stay up late and get up again late, so that's early." Christine flashed him one of those bright smiles that could make his insides all warm and fluffy. "You'll be used to something else, probably."

"That's right. No chance for a nice long sleep in the navy." Once he had gotten into trouble for sleeping over, and he had absolutely not wanted to repeat this mistake.

Soon the cook returned with Madame Giry, and Raoul wondered what expression the butler must be wearing now, as his duty was taken from him, and, as Raoul guessed, without explanation. He only hoped the man would not give him any more trouble over it. Oh, that bloody Phantom, indeed! As soon as he turned up, he upset everything!

Greetings were exchanged quickly and, in Madame Giry's case, in a no-nonsense voice. There seemed to be something serious on her mind, Raoul observed, for she hardly bothered with frowning at Meg's attire. Then the mistress of ballet waved three men in and closed the door behind them. Raoul cast them a quick glance and decided that he had never seen them before, but Christine gave a soft gasp at their sight. Surprised, Raoul sought to meet her gaze, but she was looking at the Phantom, for some reason, and the Phantom gave her a short nod, the meaning of which did not become quite clear to Raoul.

All three of those men were in their early thirties, it seemed, and they appeared, from the way they were dressed, simple, yet neat. One, his stance conveying strength as well as calm, had dark chestnut curls, another beside him had lighter brown hair, and an uncertain little smile. The third was a slim, pale fellow, yet with hair almost black, and the expression he wore was oddly lost, as if his thoughts had already taken him somewhere else when passing through the door.

As one, the men's gazes travelled towards where the Phantom was standing, one shoulder to the wall and facing them, looking as cold and distant as ever, and although he was not wearing his black cloak now, just as lordly. Nothing about him revealed that he had until a moment ago been busy tackling fried bacon and scrambled eggs. While the dreamy-faced one just regarded him with what seemed to be horrid fascination, the other two exchanged a glance. Then the curly-haired one stepped forth and dropped to one knee. "My Lord Phantom." The other followed his example and murmured the same, yet added, "How may we serve you?" And after some hesitation, their pale companion did the same, but what he whispered under his breath Raoul did not quite understand.

The Phantom observed them coldly, and if he was surprised – as Raoul strongly assumed – he did not show it. There rather was suspicion in his gaze as he mustered them. Then he met Madame Giry's eyes, and she smiled encouragingly and nodded at him, with a little gesture in the men's direction. He still looked doubtful, though; Raoul saw one corner of his mouth twitch slightly as he eyed the three kneeling men once again. Only when Madame Giry repeated her gesture did he truly react to them in any way.

He addressed the curly-haired one, his voice cool and not displaying any emotions. "Why would you kneel, Serge? It is not like you."

The man raised his head to meet the Phantom's gaze. His eyes were surprisingly green, of a strange, smoky tone, without blue in it. "No, my Lord, I do not kneel to others. But I pledged myself to you. We all did." For him, this seemed to be explanation enough; a pledge once made clearly was a duty he would follow.

"My Lord Phantom?" This was the one with the lighter hair. He seemed almost anxious… anxious to please. "We – that is, I – said to the one who led us out of the cellars, where we had been captives, that you were our… liege-lord." Clearly the word was unfamiliar to him, yet not the concept of serving another man. Somehow, he seemed to be quite at home with his current position. "Serge and I regard this statement as binding. And moreover, you are the only one who can protect us from… that threat, if you don't mind my saying so, my Lord." This time, he squirmed under the Phantom's gaze. "And the only one who can still save Claude."

"They still have him", Christine whispered from behind, and Raoul winced at how loud her soft voice suddenly seemed in the heavy silence. "They had those three, and two more. One they killed. Three escaped. One is still down there."

The Phantom nodded slowly. "The carpenter? Yes, for all I know, he is still down there."

Raoul had to prevent his jaw from dropping. How did the Phantom want to know? And, most of all, how did Christine know? Why did she know anything about this? What was really going on here? "So this Créon has been holding you prisoners, and you got away?" he asked. "And another is still with him?"

All eyes swivelled over to him. "Yes, monsieur", the one with the lightest hair replied.

"And one is dead", the man with the curly hair – Serge, as it seemed – added quietly.

Three here, one dead, one still down there in those catacombs – how could Christine possibly have known?

There were two men involved in their escape", Madame Giry spoke up. "One led them up from the cellars, while the other alerted me. They were both Hungarian, as it seemed, and uncle and nephew. The names they gave were Lászlo and Sándor, yet I don't know if they have any other. They seem to serve one of… those men, but one not entirely loyal to Créon."

"One – Sándor, that is – claimed they could communicate with him through their thoughts or something, my Lord", the second to speak added. "And he claims his lord learned it from you. They are both blond; they stood out from those others serving them we saw down there –"

"That makes their lord Aeternus", the Phantom interrupted.

"The one with the… glove?" Madame Giry inquired.

"Exactly." The Phantom frowned darkly. "I learned something from him as well. But that he says he learned _that_ from me…" His gaze wandered towards Christine, who met his eyes uncertainly. "I don't like it", he finished grimly.

"Do you think we can trust him?" the ballet instructor asked.

"I wouldn't risk my life for it. For all we know, it might be a trap."

She nodded. "Just as I thought."

"What did they want with you, anyway?" Raoul burst out, unable to keep the question to himself any longer.

"Me", the Phantom answered, instead of one of the three. "Créon wanted them to get at me."

"But you are strong enough to face him now", Christine interjected quietly, and Raoul turned to regard her with surprise.

He answered her gaze doubtfully. "Him maybe. But all of them?"

"There is something this Aeternus wants you to know", Madame Giry put in before Christine had the time to reply. "A piece of advice, I think. He had one of his men tell me that you wouldn't stand any chance as long as you faced them all at once. And the stress lay on _all at once_. I think he wants you to know that you must face them –"

"One after the other", the Phantom finished for her. "This was the very idea I had, to deal with them one by one." What entered his gaze made a shiver run over Raoul's back. There was murder in his eyes. "But still, I can't be sure, even about that."

Once again it was Christine who spoke up gently. "But you are strong enough to try."

He looked at her, and at once there was tenderness in his eyes. "I must be. And for your sake, I will be." Then he turned to the three kneeling men again. "Rise, and tell me your story. With every detail I need to know."


	51. II The Power of the Music of the Night

**II. The Power of the Music of the Night**

"So you really mean to say that that Ghost, however nasty and evil he may be, is not the bad guy?" André's eyebrows performed a weird waggling dance, up and down over his forehead.

Madame Giry suppressed a groan, though very barely. How many repetitions of the same subject did it take to get it through that man's thick skull? And Firmin was not much better, when she considered it. All the time their eyes flickered towards the dark shape behind her, yet still they refused to believe. How much evidence did the idiots need? Was those three decent young workers' word not enough? Good Heavens, she would be boxing some ears soon if she did not restrain herself!

"If you do not believe them", Raoul put in angrily, "I do. I was there. I saw Créon. Face to face. Will you at least believe _me_?"

"I saw him, too!" Meg cried. "All of them! And my mother saw some of them, only yesterday morning!"

Madame Giry motioned her daughter to be silent. Why did the girl always have to get involved? Really, Meg ought to learn when to keep her mouth shut. There had been no need for this.

And she ought to learn not to pout when she was silenced.

"Do you really believe I would let the Phantom walk free if he weren't an ally?" Raoul continued. "You know I wouldn't. But I'm afraid he's the only one who can get rid of them for us." He paused, and then added, "But I'll help."

The silly boy. Madame Giry almost shook her head at his stubbornness. Always wanting to handle everything, even if he had no idea what he was really doing. The boy was brave, no doubt, but he would have to learn to be a bit more cautious.

"Well, André", Firmin said slowly, "I think that for now we have no better option than believing their word, however crazy their story sounds. I mean, Madame Giry is a very sensible woman", he added hastily, as if he instinctively felt how much she desired to subject his ears to a rather rough treatment. "And so is Mademoiselle Daaé, and the young Vicomte de Chagny. Though in his case, I'll have to say he's a sensible _man_." Firmin cleared his throat and laughed nervously. "Well, anyway… well… yes, I think we can afford to believe them, until we learn otherwise."

André scowled at him. "Are you meaning to say that… that…" His face reddened as he sought for suitable words, yet his eyes roved frantically towards the Phantom and back again.

The Phantom smiled. And it was not a friendly smile. It was the kind of smile he would wear just before he kicked somebody down into a black hole, or better yet, tied a rope around that unfortunate man's neck, fixed the end somewhere and then kicked.

Again Madame Giry was in danger of groaning. Oh, _Erik_! You horrible _nuisance_! "Do you expect me to guarantee for you that my friend here will be nice and friendly and stay in character all the time?" she asked, giving him a little nudge. Not exactly what she had intended to say next, but what reflected her mood best, when she considered it.

André's eyes positively bulged. "You mean he'll… do something to us… if we… don't believe you?"

"Precisely", Madame Giry said firmly, hoping that at least _this_ would work. "You'll have no difficulty believing _that_, I presume."

The Phantom smirked.

Firmin shook his head, watching the Phantom warily. "André…"

"_Very well_", André said in a strained voice. "I trust him to do _that_."

Excellent. "So you will do what we required of you?"

"_Yes_."

"Not alert the police until we tell you to?"

"_Yes_."

"Leave us free hand in all decisions?"

"_Yes_", the managers moaned together. Casting a glance at the Phantom, Madame Giry saw that his smirk had worsened. He was baring his teeth now.

"Give us all the support we ask of you?"

It seemed that André at first wanted to refuse, yet Firmin gave his affirmative answer so quickly that he had to do the same, though through gritted teeth.

"Good." She allowed herself a content little smile. Those men were not to be trusted, but at least she had them exactly where she had wanted them. "Now, my friend the Ghost will go and free the man who is still held by Créon –"

"However noble that may be of him", André interrupted coldly, and with an ugly twist of his mouth, "it's too late. He was already found dead only minutes ago. Completely unmarked, but plainly dead."

There came a strangled moan from behind her, from either Gaston or Serge or Hulot.

"And why, pray, haven't you told us so earlier on?" Raoul cried, enraged. "Why haven't you mentioned it along with the fact that the other was found?"

The managers exchanged a hasty glance. "Because you didn't ask?" André ventured.

"Fools!" Madame Giry snapped. "If you love your life and your eyesight, you will never keep valuable information from us again! Is that understood?"

Again they exchanged a glance, and again it was André who spoke up. "Do you realize, my dear Madame, that you might well lose your post over this if you are wrong?"

The Phantom snarled. There was no other word for it.

Concentrate. Keep your hands at your side. At your side! Don't even look at his ears! "You will find", Madame Giry answered in as dignified a tone as possible, "that I am right."

"But that changes things", Raoul said, in a slightly doubtful voice. "I mean, if Claude –"

"It changes _nothing_", the Phantom interrupted coolly. "Not for me."

Raoul cast him a quick glance. "Yes. Right. It changes nothing, then."

What was it exactly those two were planning to do? Or rather, what was it the Phantom was planning to do? For it was obvious who was leading among them, and who following, out of his sense of duty and honour. Lord above, don't let my Erik do anything foolish again!

At last Firmin spoke again, and he seemed to have just the same question, though he directed at Raoul. "And what, Monsieur, do you intend to do about this invasion?"

"Chase them out", Raoul replied firmly. "How remains to be seen." He frowned for a moment, then added, "For you, I mean."

So he did not know what they were going to do himself. For Madame Giry had no doubt that he had been quite open and frank at first, and had only corrected himself when he had realized that it would be better to make the managers believe that he knew exactly what he was going to do.

"And if they are so powerful", André joined the fray again, "with which power do you expect to defeat them?"

Christine had not spoken until then, but now she stepped forward, one hand briefly touching the Phantom's upper arm. Their eyes met, and tenderness appeared in his, at the same time as he seemed to stand even taller, more upright, and as his stance seemed to grow more daring and self-assured. "The power of the music of the night", Christine said gently.

However melodramatic that might sound, Madame Giry had to admit to herself that she could have put it no better.


	52. III When will the Flames at last consume...

**III. When will the Flames at last consume us?**

Niobe remembered.

_Tall and strong…__ Those eyes of blue… Dark hair flying in the wind…_

Memory… The distilled, compressed essence of time… It rested heavily on her mind.

_That disdainful little smile curving his lips… His graceful way of strutting, as if he owned the world…_

There were some things one would never forget, not if ages had come and passed.

_He was very close now, and his eyes bored into hers, like augers of clear blue crystal. His presence filled her, just as she knew that hers filled him. As they stood so close that their bodies almost touched, the strong wind always blowing up here on the ramparts played with their hair, made it mingle._

Yes, she had met him before. She knew she had. She had met him so long ago that those days had even faded from myth, but she remembered. She remembered now.

_"There is night in your eyes." His voice was very soft, very gentle, like velvet brushing lightly against her skin._

He had lost none of his gift of observation, she was sure.

_"There is morning in yours… or maybe just the light of a dying star."_

No, not a star. A dying world. She knew it now.

_"Why would you say such a thing?" he inquired, his hand reaching up to caress her cheek lightly. "Why would one so fair proclaim for me a fate so cruel?"_

The calm with which he had borne it… And the pain he had endured…

_"The light of your eyes is changing. There is turmoil in your soul. I cannot read you."_

Still, she had to admit, he remained a puzzle to her.

_His smile was mocking, but ever so alluring. "And yet you can read everyone."_

Yes. This was her. This was what she had once been, and what she would be again.

_"I will yet read you too, my lovely boy", she promised, touching his cheek in return. "You are a very intriguing object of study, and I will enjoy getting to know you… _closer_."_

Which she had. She knew she had. She could not yet recall the details – not _yet_, she reminded herself, not _yet_ – but she knew that it had been so. She knew that she had had him… or rather, she suspected, though she was loath to admit so, that he had had her. It had been part of the bargain, part of the price he had asked.

_Those crystal eyes were so bright, so clear, so fearless as they settled upon the one they all feared, and they oddly gleamed in the gloom of the dark chamber. "I accept your offer", he announced calmly. "I want everything we agreed on, and immediately after it's done. Yes, and a night with the girl, and before I do it."_

The price for treason.

_"What do you say now?" he purred, his breath tickling her cheek as he pressed her to the wall with his body. "What does it feel like, being part of the bargain, and not a subject, but an object? I always get what I want, you see, and tonight I will be wanting _you_…"_

Not always, she recalled. Not always. Had it been so, there would have never been a bargain.

_"I will be wanting you to be mine, mine alone, until I let you go again."_

Had it been so, there might not have been an end to the days of old.

_"And I will be most displeased with you if you don't give me exactly what I want. There might be no more bargain if I don't receive my due reward, you understand?"_

What impertinence, what utmost, outrageous impertinence! Never before, and never again, had a man dared to take that tone with her. He was special, and in many ways.

_The sleeves of his thin white shirt rolled up to his elbows, he was leaning against the wall, his head tilted back and his eyes half closed as he enjoyed the sun on his face. "You know, pleasure is vastly underrated, in my opinion", he stated. "All they ever care about is duty and responsibility. All very well, and very honourable, and I have not failed them one single time as far as all that is concerned. But clearly, it is not everything." One of his hands wandered up to thoughtlessly brush a long strand of dark hair from his face. "It is the goal, and the purpose. But it is not the way. What is a being without passion? Is it not a dead one?"_

Passion, indeed. Wild, consuming passion…

_"Yet you have been called cold-hearted." She watched him carefully as she said so, yet his expression stayed the same, and his eyes remained half closed._

Cold-hearted, but with a fiery soul.

_Stretched out on his back, he was watching her; she felt his eyes on her._

And _he_ was the one in charge. It would not work otherwise, or would it? No, of course it would. But she would have to change it. She would have to make sure he knew whom to serve. She would yet have to teach him submission, as it seemed. And it was obvious that he would really submit, if just handled correctly; her attempt to get at him via that girl he loved had shown it clearly enough; he had yielded straight away, then.

_Suddenly on her back, she felt him over her, the touch of his hands as well as his lips, everywhere at once._

It was hard to believe that he could yield at all.

_His teeth were grazing the side of her neck, biting and gnawing, just at the edge of pain. Forcing her chin up with his, he wandered towards her throat this way, the pressure increasing ever so slightly as his jaws closed around it, and he snarled softly. _Mine_, he seemed to say as he greedily ravished her, _mine_…_

Hard to believe, indeed. But he could. He could be made to do so. And if he could be, then she would. This time, she would be the one to possess him, whatever had happened earlier on… especially since he had no memories as yet, since he even refused to admit who he was. And since he seemed unable to draw from his own full potential.

_She woke as the first morning light fell into the chamber, comfortable in his warm embrace, his presence pleasantly filling her._

But he was gone from her head. Very suddenly, the connection had been snapped, broken, severed as if with an axe. And then, for a brief period, she had reached out for him through the girl, and soon they had battled for supremacy over the girl's petty little mind. And then, he had pushed her out, and she now felt him no more. He was gone from her head, leaving a patch of emptiness where her awareness of him should be.

_When she sat up, he growled softly in his sleep as his arms slid off her, stirring slightly, but he did not wake. Smiling, she regarded his unclothed form, only partially covered by all the furs and blankets he had piled up in his bed, making it more a nest than anything else. So pretty... There must be a way of keeping him, of having him all to herself._

He loved another, and he had always loved another.

_She wished for him to be her own… and yet she knew the terms of the bargain he had made with the Herald of Fate. She had been there when he had accepted it, and then asked to possess her. And she knew that what he had asked of her ally was another woman. Another woman's heart. Another woman's love, a love as great as the one he harboured for her. Yes, he loved this woman, this petty earthling girl, he loved her with passion, and his love, and his despair over not being loved in return, had driven him to forswear his allegiances and sell his soul to the shadow._

She had felt how much he loved this unimportant little Christine, and all his pain for not being loved in return.

_And when this all was over and done with, he would have her, his unimportant little earthling, and spend his nights with her, in her arms. There would be no need for anybody else for him, then. Beside that earthling worm, there would be no more place for her._

Why did the fool have to lose his heart to someone so utterly undeserving?

_No, she could not permit this! She would not! She refused to!_

He was hers. Hers.

_And then, a plan formed in her mind, a plan to forever rid herself of the unworthy rival. She would just need to have a word with her ally; she knew just the reasons to convince him. And he would never know until too late, and in his grief, his need for comfort, he would be easy to take, and she would bind him to her._

Forever.

_Because she loved him._

She loved him.

_He was the first man she had ever loved, and despite the foolishness of this emotion, she would never let him go. He did not love her in return, but it did not matter. All that mattered was to have him, to possess him, to make him her own, and without him realizing what was going on until he was hopelessly tangled in her web._

He was being stubborn, but she liked that in a man. It would make him so much more enjoyable to play with.

_And she would have him._

She would have him again.


	53. IV The Voice which calls to me

**IV. The Voice which calls to me**

"There is no need to be afraid", the Phantom said gently, as they were huddling together in Christine's old changing room. "No need at all."

Meg nodded, wondering if there was any possibility of hiding under his cloak, and remaining there for the rest of the day and the night. No, small chance of that.

"Because we're going on alone now, from now on", Raoul continued. "Him and me. And you girls stay here until we come back."

_What?_ What did they intend to do? Leave them behind? She started to protest at the same time as Christine did. They had no right to do so!

"You're not going, and I mean it", Raoul told Christine at the same time as the Phantom told Meg, "This time you're staying. End of discussion."

"You planned this beforehand!" Meg accused him, jabbing her forefinger into his chest. "You –"

"Did they?" Christine asked, surprised. "Those two? Do you think they –"

Raoul sighed. "Yes, we did. We agreed on not letting you get involved again. So you two will stay with Meg's mother while she practises with the little ones, and wait quietly for our return."

"We're not little children anymore!" Meg cried furiously. Wait with her _mother_! And watch her train the little ones! Certainly not!

"You might well need us", Christine argued. "You may need somebody to cover your back."

"We can cover each other's back", Raoul said, though without much enthusiasm. It was clear that he would not enjoy watching the Phantom's back for him, and that it was just the same the other way round was not even worth wondering about.

"Your safety is more important", the Phantom insisted. "Think what Créon is capable of." Meg felt a twinge of jealousy at the tenderness with which he regarded her friend. "I don't want to scare you, but the conditions of the second corpse they found make me believe that it takes him nothing but a thought to kill. A thought! Do you understand? You're not going anywhere near him, not again."

"I'm not afraid", Meg said stubbornly. Yet Raoul could go, now could he? It was so absolutely unfair!

"Can't you do the same?" Christine asked quietly.

Meg, previously busy with glaring at Raoul, who had just begun squirming so very satisfactorily under her gaze, now swivelled around to stare at the Phantom, and Raoul did the same. What had Christine just suggested? No, this was impossible! _Nobody_ could do that! Nobody! Well, perhaps Créon, but Créon was a monster and deserved to be killed. But nobody else, nobody else in the world!

For a moment, the Phantom was silent, and he met nobody's eyes. Then, at last, he answered, very softly, "I think I can."

There was a gasp, but Meg was not sure if it had come from Christine or Raoul, or maybe from herself. Her feet took a few steps back all of their own accord, before she got a grip on herself and made them stand still. Something inside her clenched to a painful knot. She had grown to like him. She had thought he was a friend. She had fallen asleep in his comforting embrace last night, while he had sung to her. And now… Now it turned out that he was a creature from Hell.

She shivered as her eyes met his – so bright, so terribly bright, just like the cold diamond glint of snow under the moon – but he turned away and lowered his head. "I know", he said, his voice rough with bitterness, "I deserve to die for it, just like Créon. And if you want me to, I will. Just grant me one last wish: Let me kill Créon first."

There was a moment of ringing silence, and Meg bit her lips. How could she have reacted like that? It was not his fault, after all. She had no right to blame him for what he was – whatever that might be. All he had given her until now was affection, and still she turned her back on him as soon as she learned what he could do with his powers? He had never done so! And it was not his fault that he could! But she stood frozen, unable to move, and still terror held sway over her.

"Erik…" Christine's voice sounded thin, yet determined as she approached him, and he did not pull away as she touched his shoulder and gently turned him to face her. "A man can't change what he was born as, so it's not right to judge him by it. But you can show us who you are by acting like it. And up until now, you were doing well. Don't give up on yourself." She hesitated, and Meg saw her blush slightly before she added, "Because I haven't given up on you yet."

He said nothing to this, but a little smile appeared on his lips, and it did not go away.

"Why, that's jolly good", Raoul cried, though he still sounded somewhat shaken. "Can you kill that horrible Créon this way?"

The Phantom gave him a dark look. "It's not that easy. I'd need to get into his head first."

"And deep down into his head", Christine added, and then, for some reason, her cheeks reddened some more.

"That's right." Christine got another look of utter fondness. "And besides, I never tried it."

"Right", Raoul said, shrugging. "Just a thought."

Meg realized that she was the only one who had not spoken since Christine had asked that one question which had briefly unhinged her world. Had she hurt him by her reaction? She assumed she had. She must have.

So she needed to do something about it… and in her mind there already was an idea forming, quite a lovely idea. Could she really do _that_, in front of all the others? Yes, she decided, she could. Her mother wasn't watching, so what the hell. Marching up to the Phantom, she wrapped her arms around him. "I'm sorry, Erik", she said, then, before he had the chance to answer or protest to her using that name, she stood on tiptoe – Heavens, why did he have to be that tall, or why couldn't he lower his head a bit when she needed him to? – and kissed his lips.

It was just a brief kiss, and nothing compared to what he had done with her the last evening, but all the same, he seemed to like it. When he pulled her into his arms and allowed her to rest her head against his shoulder, she had to suppress a triumphant grin. Top marks in Phantom-handling! She wondered if her mother had ever been that good at it.

There was a pause, and Meg realized what kind of looks the others must be giving her at the moment, but she didn't mind. Christine was her friend, and Raoul was her friend, too, so she had nothing to hide from them. If she chose to like the Phantom, why should they be bothered by it? And besides, Christine – and especially Raoul! – certainly liked to see him occupied with another woman.

At last Raoul cleared his throat. "Well, right… I admit I might have been a bit wrong yesterday."

"About me and her?" The Phantom chuckled, and Meg felt the vibrations of his ribcage. "You might have been, kid, yes."

"Thought so this morning when I saw that mark on your neck", Raoul remarked cheerfully, no doubt in the tone he used to tease someone. "Bet you haven't noticed it yet, pal."

Meg felt the Phantom stiffen, and she froze herself. There was a mark on his neck? One of those traitorous red spots? Impossible! She had certainly not given him one of _those_! All they had done was a little bit of snuggling, and that kiss – which _he_ had started, anyway – but there had been no other… activities. He wasn't her lover, for Heaven's sake!

And what did Raoul know about it? What were they discussing?

The Phantom let her go with one arm and massaged the side of his neck, and as Meg looked up, she really saw a slight spot of red on his skin. This certainly wasn't from her, but it hadn't been there last night, either! She was quite sure about it. Funny, that. It only left one candidate… Finally letting go of him, she turned her head slightly and saw just what she had more or less expected, though it surprised her greatly: Christine was blushing furiously now, staring at her feet hard.

And how he had known immediately which spot to rub…

Could it be that Christine was… carrying on a love affair with two men at the same time? Could it be that she was cheating on Raoul? This was not what she would have thought her friend capable of. Not Christine. Somebody else any time, but not Christine.

Yet still… that spot seemed to originate in some kind of… activity of her friend's.

Raoul wouldn't like it when he found out. And he would know when he turned to look at her. From Christine's red cheeks, he would be able to read the answer immediately. And then… The men would be at each other's throat again, no doubt, and maybe Raoul would blame Christine, too, and…

No. She couldn't let this happen. She would have a word with Christine later on, but now… she would cover up for her. Raoul was a friend, after all, and he wouldn't think any different of her. At least she hoped so. "Whoops", she said, shifting her features into the best awkward grin she managed. "I didn't realize you'd see that later on."

Raoul snickered, obviously amused at her reaction. "Naughty, naughty." And to her enormous relief, he did not look at Christine.

Meg shrugged. "He just looked so tasty to me."

The Phantom grinned. "Was I?" Meg was glad he did not rub his obvious success with Christine under Raoul's nose. "From the way you tried to eat me, I guess you didn't get enough dinner."

Now that was overdone; he need not have said _that_! Meg felt the heat rise in her cheeks. But then she saw the grateful look in Christine's eyes and answered, "Yes, quite." She even managed a giggle.

But to Hell with it, as soon as they turned their backs, she would _kick_ the Phantom!

And if Raoul really believed they were lovers, she would kick him, too.

"We-ell", Raoul said brightly, and Meg decided that for his idea of changing the topic he would not be kicked after all, "shall we go, Master Ghost?"

"Probably the first intelligent thing I ever heard from you, Master Fop."

Raoul rolled his eyes at him. "So, ladies, you'll go and spend a nice afternoon, and we'll see you later on."

He would still be kicked! "Why can't we come?" Meg protested.

"Because this is men's work", Raoul replied. "By the way, you might change back into a dress now."

That _idiot_! Lost for words, Meg stuck out her tongue at him furiously.

Christine frowned at him. "Raoul… what are you planning to do, anyway?"

To Meg's astonishment, Raoul looked at the Phantom. "Well, I thought we might…" When it became clear that the Phantom was not going to help him, he finished, "Well, we might sneak up on them."

"Sneak up on them!" Meg repeated with a snort. Really, couldn't he do better than this? "You have no idea what you're going to do!" she accused them both. "But still you think you can handle it, just because you're men and you think that makes you extra clever!"

"You needn't think I don't know what to do only because the kid doesn't." Though he seemed to be doing his best to restrain himself, the Phantom still shot Raoul a look of contempt. "In fact, I know perfectly well what I intend to do."

Meg raised her eyebrows at him. "And what might that be, my Lord Phantom?" she asked sarcastically.

"Hidden weapons, if this pleases you, my Lady I'm-currently-playing-at-tart", he answered with a mock little bow.

"Jerk", Meg muttered. One of these days she would really kick him. Playing at tart! At _tart_! As if she had ever done that!

"Hidden weapons?" Christine asked. "What do you mean?"

"That I've got something which might surprise them." Again that smug look had appeared on his face. Why did he always have to look smug? Arrogant git!

"But we ought to be going now", Raoul insisted. "Don't worry, we'll be back with you soon."

"Agreed, kid." The Phantom tugged at his cloak impatiently. "I'd like to finish this as soon as possible, and then be gone again."

Christine's features took on an expression of worry. "It's those threads of darkness again, isn't it?"

He looked at her slowly, almost calculatingly. "Can you feel anything?"

For a moment Christine closed her eyes, then she opened them again and shook her head. "Nothing. Just your uneasiness. But that's dimmed, too. Foggy."

When his features relaxed, Meg realized that he had been clenching his jaws while waiting for this answer. "Good. Listen, when you feel anything change… run for it. Both of you. Run for your lives."

Meg exchanged a look with Raoul, who seemed to be just as perplexed as she was. Of course she knew about the threads of darkness, because the Phantom had explained about them. And Christine had admitted to having a… connection of some kind with him, but of what nature this connection might be, she had not said. Those two shared something nobody else had. Somehow, this made Meg feel left out, and she wondered what it must be like for Raoul.

Poor Raoul.

"Erik… there's something wrong, isn't there?" The concern showing on Christine's face had increased, and it was mirrored on Raoul's features. "I know there is."

"There is", he admitted, one hand resting on his sabre hilt.

"Tell me", she said quietly. "Please."

Shifting his weight from one booted foot to the other, it was obvious that he was not comfortable. "Can you do me a favour?" he said at last. "Could you perhaps have a look into my head and tell me I'm just paranoid? I'll shield you, of course."

Although Meg had no idea what he meant by this, Christine's face showed her that her friend knew exactly what he was talking about. And she did not like the idea too much. The Phantom waited patiently for her answer, and at last she nodded. "If you want me to… But please make sure I don't… do anything stupid." For some reason, she blushed and averted her gaze.

He touched her shoulder gingerly. "I'll do my best."

Nodding slowly, she raised her head again to face him, then, for a moment, turned to give Raoul something like an apologetic, but nonetheless radiant smile, which left her fiancé grinning somewhat sheepishly to himself for a little while, before he resumed frowning. Then she met the Phantom's eyes again, and her quiet intake of breath was clearly audible to Meg, just as if her friend were going to dive down into cold, deep water. For a few seconds they held each other's gaze, then Christine closed her eyes. At first she swayed slightly, seemingly unaware, but the Phantom steadied her with a hand on her shoulder before Raoul could even make a move to start towards her. Then they just stood in silence.

Meg turned to look at Raoul, who shrugged. Apparently he knew no more of this than she did. And he did not like what he was seeing, either; though they did not touch, apart from the Phantom's hand on Christine's shoulder, it probably looked too much like an intimacy to him. Moreover, from what had been intelligible of their words, it was easy to deduct that the Phantom was messing with Christine's mind again – or maybe the other way round, as it had sounded, but Meg couldn't possibly imagine Christine messing with anyone's mind – and Raoul, of course, wouldn't trust him in that area. Meg couldn't blame him for it.

At last Christine opened her eyes again and took a step backwards, breaking their contact. For a moment she looked as if waking from a dream, but her expression was serious, Meg noted with concern. Very serious. "You're not just paranoid", Christine said softly.

"Just as I feared." His eyes had narrowed to slits. "May she burn in Hell for all of goddamn eternity."

Heavens, the man could curse! Meg was not sure who he was referring to – Niobe, she suspected, as this was the only major female enemy she knew of – but she made a mental note to remember his exact wording.

"Are you quite sure it's her?"

"Absolutely." His voice was grimmer than ever. "I can hear her calling to me. All the time."

Christine looked doubtful, while, at the same time, very concerned. "But Erik, you're shielded against her. Against all of them. She can't possibly know you're here." Her delicate eyebrows lowered a fraction, and as she spoke again, her lips trembled. "Can she?"

"No, it's not that. I don't think they're aware of me at all. It's just… some remnant of her touch. Some shadow of her spirit, still trying to gain access to my mind. I can hear the echo of her whispers resounding in my head. Damn it, I can hear her voice! And I don't know how to get her out!" Those last two sentences were spoken in a snarl, with his teeth bared.

Surprisingly, it was Raoul who walked up to him and gave him a gentle nudge. "Let's be done with the bitch, then, eh?"


	54. V One Companion

**V. One Companion**

"Bloody hell!" Raoul exclaimed, completely unable to decide where to look first. "That's quite a collection!"

He heard the Phantom's light footsteps behind him, then the door was pulled closed. "Keep your voice down", his rival said harshly.

Raoul chose to ignore him. There were more interesting things to pay attention to. All those long, long rows of costumes, lines and lines of them! Dust was in the air, and the distinct smell of mothballs, and the gas lights were dim, truly giving this place the feeling of somewhere deep down in the cellars. And to think that they were just on the second level, not too far beneath the ground compared to where the Phantom dwelled… One could spend a lifetime here, just exploring.

Which probably was what the Phantom had occupied himself with, apart from spying on Christine.

"Those are just the archives", the Phantom said dismissively. "They are barely used now. The actual costume rooms are a level further up."

"But nobody ever comes here, right?" Raoul guessed, tugging at the sleeve of a heavy brocaded gown.

"This is correct", the Phantom said stiffly, seemingly unwilling to agree with him.

"Right. And what do we do now?"

"In my case, pick up some things I need. In your case, change into a more suitable attire."

"What?" Raoul looked down at himself. Was there anything wrong with his suit? Then he understood. "Ah. We're going to get dirty."

"And I don't want to hear your complaints about it."

"Right", Raoul repeated, already starting off along the rows. "Right…"

"There's a mirror at the other end of the room. It has a few blind spots, but it's good enough for your use. Mind you don't take too long admiring yourself."

Raoul ignored his remark. This might even be going to be some fun, and he wouldn't let the Phantom spoil it.

Searching through the numerous rows of old costumes, he found several things which might fit him, and some which might be quite interesting to try on. That marine blue velvet jacket, for example, he might look good in that. Or that pale green one. Or how about that nice red vest? Christine might like it on him. Oh, and there was a large feathered hat…

"Don't even think about it", the Phantom growled, turning up so suddenly behind him that Raoul almost jumped. "Plain black, for preference, and something you can move in properly."

"I wasn't going to wear that, anyway." He had only intended to try it on; that was a difference. Tugging at something black sticking out between what seemed to be a pair of voluminous pink petticoats, he added, "That better?"

"Check what it really is first."

There was nothing to be said against this, of course. Raoul pulled the item off its hanger – and at once snorted with laughter. He was holding another petticoat, but a many-layered and very lacy one, and all in black.

"Nice choice", the Phantom chuckled. "Might even look good on you."

Raoul hurried to put the thing back where he had taken it from. "No, I'm not wearing girls' stuff! Besides, I bet that itches."

"Have you ever worn a woman's clothes, then?"

"Yes, once." Raoul grimaced. "For a theatre production at my boarding school. It was a sky-blue woollen dress, and it was horrible." He continued down the aisle between two rows. "How about you?"

"Once, too", the Phantom admitted. "When I was a boy. Right in this room. It was the most dreadful pink dress you can possibly imagine."

The mere idea made Raoul snort anew. "And, did you like it?"

"No", the Phantom replied promptly. "I kept tripping over the hem, and I hated the corset."

"The _corset_?" Now this was getting better and better!

"Yes, curse the thing. Claire insisted to put me in one."

"Madame Giry, you mean?"

The Phantom nodded. "Her exactly. When she was still a giggly ballet girl."

"And she put you in a _corset_?"

"Yes, for the fun of it." The Phantom shrugged. "You'll have to imagine her a bit like Meg. She'd do that, too, with a kid she'd decide to adopt as her little brother."

Like Meg? Yes, Raoul could only too well imagine Meg doing such a thing. Madame Giry had been like that, so very mischievous? And now she was so stern and serious? Funny, that. He wondered what Meg would turn out to be like one day. "And did she tie it properly?"

"I don't know, but it certainly was too tight for my taste."

Yes, those things had a tendency to be so, as it seemed. Raoul shuddered. "As it's meant to be, then." Crazy things, corsets. "Women wouldn't faint so much without them." He wondered why they still wore them, then. Well, women could be a bit odd sometimes.

As he looked at the Phantom, the man was wearing an evil smirk. "Gives you a reason to unlace their corsets for them, doesn't it?"

And though Raoul hated that smirk, he couldn't help but grin along. "And grope at their breasts, right? But discreetly."

The Phantom's grin widened. "I didn't expect you to be that crude, kid." Raoul was surprised to see a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Dear me. What would your mother say?"

Raoul shrugged. "Smack my hindquarters, no doubt." She had done that often enough when he had been younger, and he wouldn't put it past her to do it again. "That was what she did when I groped at a woman's breasts for the first time. I was nine, and the woman in question was a serving girl, and rather gifted in that area." He snickered at the memory. "How about you? Ever had a chance to do that?" And pray it wasn't on Christine!

"More by accident. And I don't know how old I was", the Phantom answered curtly. "Here, how about this?"

Not very talkative where his own experiences were concerned, now was he? The woman in question might just have been a younger Madame Giry… and she might well have boxed his ears for his little accident. Grinning, Raoul lifted the indicated black shirt up to the dim light to examine it. It was made of a rough fabric, and it might just be his size. "Right", he agreed, "certainly better than my own."

"See you find something more." With this, the Phantom headed down the aisle determinedly, striding purposefully towards a dark corner of the room. Raoul assumed he was going to produce his mysterious secret weapons now – if there were any at all.

The girls had doubted their existence just as well, but he had not backed the girls up, because making them stay had been troublesome enough, anyway. Finally Madame Giry had arrived and taken them into her care, but until then, not even the Phantom's unsettling glare had sufficed to convince them.

Rummaging through a pile of clothes on the floor, Raoul heaved a sigh. Why did women have to be so complicated? They expected you to guard and protect them and let no harm come to them, yet when you really tried to do so, they complained! Why did they have to complain? He was being a gentleman, that was all!

But maybe it was best not to think about it too much. Women could drive you insane, his father used to say. And his father knew, he truly did, being married to Raoul's mother…

No, he would not think about his mother now, either.

Trying to concentrate on it, he changed into other clothes and then went in search of the promised mirror, which he found at the end of the room, just as the Phantom had said, and just in the state the Phantom had mentioned, with a few blind spots marring its surface. Raoul studied his reflection critically and then decided that the broad belt he had picked looked amazingly good on him, but that he would need something to tuck into it, like… his revolver, for example. He hastily retrieved it from the pile of his discarded clothing, refusing to imagine what would have happened had he forgotten it. And if he buckled his sabre belt on and left that loose vest open… yes, that looked quite dashing, especially with that short cloak. The gloves also were a nice touch, if maybe a little warm; they were more leather gauntlets than anything. But they made his reflection – he drew himself up proudly – that of a warrior. There only remained something to do about his hair. Binding it back seemed a good idea, yet a concept he even more liked was to still wear it open, but make the strands stick together with hair tonic or something like that, so he would appear to have a wild mane. And dye it black, maybe, or at least patches of it. And grow a moustache; it was fashionable, anyway. Raoul frowned at himself, trying to appear grim. Small chance to find any hair tonic in here. Yet perhaps if he found an interesting hat… He tried a cap hanging nearby, yet quickly decided against it. But how about this funny turban thing, the black one with the little white plumes at the front? Now _that_ was worth a try!

"You look like an idiot", the Phantom stated, his reflection ghostly appearing behind Raoul's. That one could step so lightly with such heavy boots! Well, not quite as heavy as usual, perhaps, rather of a softer leather, but still boots. And that one could convey such a substantial threat being dressed so simply hardly seemed fair. All the Phantom wore was a pair of tight-fitting black trousers and an equally tight-fitting black shirt, and he was girded with only one dagger – the other he had left with the girls, which had slightly helped to convince Meg, but only slightly. His bright eyes glittered maliciously from behind a black mask covering most of his face. Yet what struck Raoul as odd were his gloves: While on his right hand he wore a fingerless one tied with thin leather cords just beneath his wrist, his left was in a rough, padded gauntlet almost up to his elbow. Strange, his attire seemed so practical otherwise – until Raoul realized what he was carrying, together with his sabre belt. "Oh _man_!" he breathed. "Where did you get _that_?"

The Phantom answered his look of astonishment in the mirror with a smug little smirk. "Oh, from down here. I just improved it a bit."

"That thing looks _amazing_."

"It's even better than it looks. They used it for some horribly romantic Meyerbeer stuff some time ago, and I couldn't help serving myself. Only the range might still be worked on, but I'm afraid not much. It will do for my purpose, however."

Raoul still was quite impressed. An archaic weapon, but one which definitely had style. "Are you any good with it?"

"Trust me to that, kid."

Yes, he rather tended to believe so. And he suppressed the urge of asking if he could have a go with it. Of course he had occasionally played with bow and arrows as a child, but those had been self-made and never any good. This one, however, even though currently carried unstrung, looked… _real_. And so did the quiver bristling with grey-feathered arrows the Phantom carried along with it.

"Let me guess", Raoul said. "Your plan is to creep up on them and shoot a few silently, and then run for it."

"It might be roughly summed up like that", the Phantom conceded. "Yet you missed an important point: I'll have to climb to reach them, yet I won't have to run too soon."

Raoul frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Look, I happen to know this place, and better than they ever will. There's a trapdoor in that hall's ceiling, and the ceiling is so high up that it lies in shadow more or less even with all their braziers lit. That should give me some time; we might calculate five shots, maybe even more, if I'm lucky. And then, when they come up looking for me, I'll use you as a bait to take out some more."

"Oh, thank you very much", Raoul grumbled. He did not like the sound of this.

"Of course", the Phantom continued, ignoring his interjection, "you ought to be dressed for running, just like I'm dressed for climbing. Means no cloak, kid. You only look like a crippled bat in it, anyway. And take that stupid hat off."

Raoul glared at him. "You watch your tongue with me", he growled. "If I'm to put up with you, then learn to sound a bit more civil, right? Or I'll tell Christine what you've been calling me."

"She'd find your hat just as ridiculous", the Phantom said coldly. "Well?"

Scowling, Raoul put the funny turban back where he had found it. He wasn't attached to it, it really was rather ridiculous, but he hated the Phantom telling him so. Then he let the cloak follow, this time with a feeling of regret. It had looked rather nice on him. Crippled bat! What a _jerk_!

"I'm glad you did the right thing", the Phantom commented in a tone of sarcasm Raoul did not like at all. "Now, if you please, let us proceed."

Us. He said us. And he had not said that before too frequently. But to think he would accept Raoul as an equal would be a mistake, Raoul knew it. He would never do that, not even if Christine asked him to. Well, perhaps he would if she asked, but the important point was that she had not, so there was no use in idle speculation.

I should kill him, Raoul thought, I should kill him to do Christine justice. But at the same time, he knew that Christine would never forgive him if he did. Back in Christine's old room, shortly before they had departed, he had seen it once again, this strange understanding without words, this mysterious… _something_ they shared. Love on his side, pity on hers… but that was not all. That was not all.

The trouble was that Raoul did not understand it. He realized that it was there, whatever it might be, but he could not comprehend its nature. It was too subtle, too delicate for him to see.

And whatever it was, it made Christine want them to get on with each other. And if this was what she wanted, he would do it. It would be hard, close to impossible, but he would do his best.

Only then he realized that he was standing there in the middle of the costume room, gazing at nothing in particular. And the Phantom was watching him, his expression – or what was visible of it – impossible to read. But could this be a little smile of amusement? And not even an unpleasant one? Raoul could not tell for sure, but it might just be.

He cast the mirror another brief glance. In his black attire, he would probably make a bait which could melt into the darkness behind him easily. At least he hoped so. And if not… he still had his sabre and his revolver. Only his face might still stand out, but there was nothing to be done about it short of painting it black, which he certainly wouldn't do.

Or was there?

He swallowed. Very well. "I should like a mask", he said.

Their eyes met, and a moment elongated into eternity. Raoul thought to feel the Phantom's gaze boring into his, and through his eyes into his mind, until the back of his skull. He shuddered. Was this what Christine had frequently felt when looking into those eyes? Then, at last, the Phantom lowered his gaze and turned away and disappeared between the rows of costumes without a word.

Raoul swallowed again. Had he taken offence at his request? There had been absolutely no offence in it, but everybody knew the Phantom was somewhat… deranged. What if he got one of his killing frenzies now? What if he chose to sneak off on his own?

Heavens, what would Raoul tell Christine if the Phantom did?

There was the sound of footsteps coming closer swiftly, and once again he found himself facing the Phantom – only that this time his old rival was holding out a mask for him to take.

Raoul put it on without hesitation and then regarded his reflection in the mirror. It was a rather fancy one, he saw, covered in black feathers and sprinkled with a few gold ones. He even found he liked it.

Turning back to the Phantom, he nodded, indicating he was ready to go. Yet to his astonishment, the Phantom remained standing where he was… watching him. Just watching him. "Will you then submit to my leadership?" he said at last.

Raoul answered his gaze without blinking. Those eyes were… peculiar. Heat and cold were swirling in them as if in a wild gale, yet beneath them, beneath the fog they created… those eyes were just like everybody else's. Human eyes. And deep down inside them, there was a hint of something Raoul had not seen before in them. A hint of… what? Vulnerability? Fear? And at once he understood that he was not the only one afraid not to be accepted.

He did then what he preferred doing: He just spoke his mind. "Love is a peculiar thing, don't you think? A short time ago we were mortal enemies for a woman's love, and now, for the same woman's love, we are companions. And for this love, I would follow you to the end of the world."

Slightly, very slightly, the Phantom inclined his head – the kind of bow reserved for an equal.

My God, I will never be able to kill him later on now I've looked into those eyes…

The Phantom cleared his throat before he spoke, but his voice still had an uncertain, husky sound to it. "For now, we stand united under the banner of vengeance."

Raoul nodded, and at once he felt a grin steal onto his face. He could not resist the temptation to give the Phantom a playful nudge in the ribs. "Sounds good, Erik."

The Phantom nudged him right back. "That's still Phantom to you."


	55. VI We've decided

**VI. We've decided**

"Men!" Meg snorted like a furious bull. "Always thinking they know what's good for you, and always missing the point, because all they can do is think with the hair on their chests!"

Christine gave her a little smile of amusement. She was not entirely pleased with the men venturing off on their own as well, but on the other hand… there was not much she and Meg could do, was there? Except being in the way, maybe. And those two were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, and of each other. She hoped they would; at least she had asked them to do so. Of course she was worried about them, about both of them, but what could she and Meg do? Nothing, except await their return.

"Just do me the favour and agree with me", Meg muttered, scowling hard at her mother lining up the youngest ballet members at the other end of the large practice room.

Christine sighed softly. "Alright, I do. But Raoul doesn't have hair on his chest."

"Then he doesn't think at all", Meg declared. "Christine, what does that matter? He's still being nasty to us, and you still ought to kick him instead of kissing him the next time, or pinch him when he wants to snuggle, and for a few times in advance! Just for their arrogance!"

"It _does_ matter to me what he looks like", Christine pointed out. "Just as Erik's looks seem to matter to _you_."

"Well, see who's talking! After all, who gave him that nice little red thingy on his neck?"

Christine felt the blood rise into her cheeks. "No, Meg, it's not like you think! Thank you for taking the blame, a moment ago, but I'll tell Raoul about it later on anyway. It was… an accident, you might say." With a glance at Madame Giry, she lowered her voice, although that would not have been necessary. "It was Niobe, acting through me." Embarrassment flooded her anew as she recalled those moments, and what she had done. Hastily yet softly, she told her friend about the events which had taken place during the previous night, leaving out nothing except that she had hit him. That had been a rather rash action, and she felt it had not been the behaviour adequate for her. Of course he had needed to be put back into his place, yet not by hitting him. And especially not by calling him a monster.

Meg listened attentively and only interrupted very rarely to ask a question. Finally, at the end of the narrative, she sighed. "Poor boy", she said sympathetically. "That must have hurt a great deal, first realizing that you did not truly want him, and then taking you up to Raoul."

Yes, and I hurt him some more… Christine bit her lip. "I wish he could find someone else. Someone who really loves him. This way, every kind word from me makes him happy, and he is grateful for every single one, for every moment of attention really, just like a dog, but still I reject him, and I can never give him what he wants." She sighed. "I wish there were someone who could." Remembering what Raoul had assumed, she added, "What is it between you and him?"

Meg shrugged. "Nothing much, really. I just like him." Then a sly expression stole onto her face. "And I like to fondle him a bit, sometimes."

"Meg! Really!" Christine tried to look stern, but she could not fight the giggle. The times when they had used to whisper about such things together in dark corners were not that long past.

Meg lowered her voice conspiratorially. "And he's one hell of a kisser."

"Honestly, Meg", was the only thing Christine could come up with in this situation. She tried not to think of last night's kiss.

Suddenly Meg's brow wrinkled into a grim frown. "Don't make me talk about him that way when I'm angry with him, or else I'll stop being angry with him! And I _want_ to be angry with him, currently."

Christine sighed. "Meg, it's pointless! What could we have done to help them?"

"We _could_ have helped", Meg insisted. "But no, they don't want us with them, and just because we're girls!"

"I wonder what they are up to", Christine said. "They're somewhere down there, and heading further down, but I have no idea what they're going to do. I can still feel Erik, but it's… dimmed, in a way. Gone hazy." She swallowed. "I only hope he is really strong enough to shield himself."

Meg was twiddling a loose thread from the sleeve of her dress between her fingers. "Look, I know he's the one among us who can defend himself best, but I'd still like to be there with him. Poor lamb, having to put up with all those horrible Lost Ones. I'd like to hold his hand." She gave a little giggle. "And your Raoul. I'd like to keep an eye on him, too."

Once again Christine sighed. "So would I." But calling the Phantom a _lamb_… That sounded just odd.

Still, when she considered it… she would like to give the pair of them a tight hug and take them somewhere far, far away, where no Lost One could ever find them.

Poor Erik, apparently being one of them himself.

"I wonder where he got that name", Meg said suddenly, just as her mother picked up a small boy by the collar and put him back into his place in the line.

"Who, Raoul?"

"Of course not! I'm talking about Erik."

Christine shrugged. "I don't know. The only thing he told me is that it's a name from his past. There's nothing else I've heard from anyone."

"You know what?" Meg suddenly whispered, leaning over to her. "I know you're probably scared and all, but so am I. And I think I'll go and help them. Are you coming with me?"

"You can't be serious." Knowing Meg, she probably was.

"Of course I am!" Meg shot her an indignant look, then her eyes flickered towards her mother, who was turning her back on them, busy telling off a pair of little girls for not paying attention. "We'll just sneak off and then go down. I know you can find them. And then we'll see what their faces will be like when we save them from some fix they have undoubtedly landed themselves into." Meg's grin could almost be called a smirk, and Christine wondered if the Phantom had already had a bad influence on her.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea, Meg."

"But _I_ am!" Meg cast another glance towards her mother, whose attention luckily was very taken up by all the little children. "And if you're not going, then I'm going alone", she added stubbornly.

"No, you're not", Christine said wearily. "Because I'm coming with you."

Meg beamed at her. "I knew you would!"

"But still… I don't think it's a good idea."

"I do", Meg insisted. "I'll go and change back into our sweet Opera Ghost's things, then. Say, how would you like to try on some of my father's old clothes?"


	56. VII Where Night is blind

**VII. Where Night is blind**

Cleaning his dagger with the shirt of one of the fallen men, the Phantom allowed himself a moment's triumph. There had been four on this patrol or whatever it was supposed to be, four filthy gypsies, and they all were dead now. One had died from the noose thrown around his neck, because he had never learned to keep his hand at the level of his eyes. One he had stabbed with his dagger, and one he had killed with his bare hands, by breaking his neck. He felt rather smug after that one. Oh yes, and one the boy had stabbed. At first the silly kid had proclaimed fair fight and everything, but that dead man had taught him that it was better not to think along those lines in their current situation. That dead man had shown the foolish boy that the enemy did not play fair, either. While Raoul had crossed blades with one of them, that one particular gypsy had come at him from behind, trying to strangle him, and Raoul had only been free to defend himself because the Phantom, seeing the ambush coming, had broken his opponent's neck at precisely that moment. Foolish boy. But he had learned his lesson. Those gypsies were an honourless kind, so why meet them with honour? He hated them, hated those swarthy faces with all his heart. Death was all they deserved.

Getting back to his feet and re-sheathing his dagger, he met the boy's eyes. "That's the way it's done", he said. "It's good if it's a clean job, but the most important thing is to do it fast."

The boy swallowed and nodded, his eyes glittering behind his feathered mask.

They continued on their way through the lightless passages, the Phantom leading and Raoul close at his shoulder. He assumed that the boy's night vision was not good enough for this, that Raoul was practically blind, but he did not care, and the boy had not complained yet. Anyway, in those straight, smooth-floored corridors no special night sight was needed, and he would stop the boy before he stubbed his toes.

Maybe.

They walked in silence, meeting no more of those patrols. Once they passed one by very closely; he could feel their presence without reaching out to search. But they encountered no-one.

He wondered how long it would take for Créon to detect his proximity. Those threads of darkness were still there, pulsing gently, the winding tendrils reaching into every corner. But they did not touch him. It was as if they slid off some kind of smooth surface before and all around him, like rivulets of water running down a wall of glass. He could almost see the rivulets.

How long until Créon would know? It was only a question of time.

Darkness seethed in the corners, shadows playing all around him.

How long until Niobe would know?

Her voice was still in his ears, tenderly whispering to him about power and glory, but he refused to listen. _Christine is my one and only love_, he told the disembodied voice. _Go to Hell_. But it would not go away.

When they reached their destination at last, he immediately opened the large square trapdoor in the floor – and a weak shimmer of light, coming from the braziers down below, cast the dimmest of glows into the narrow room. The boy's sigh of relief, however soft it was, was quite audible.

Getting down to his hands and knees and depositing his unstrung bow beside him, the Phantom allowed himself a glimpse of what was going on down below. There were servants, small dark shapes huddled together in several groups, but he paid them no attention. His searching eyes found Aeternus, flanked by his pair of fair-haired Hungarians – this one he would have to spare – and what probably was Bertrand, a hooded figure directing a handful of servants around. There was Ferox, his yellow mane marking him clearly, and Atrox only a little way off. They were visible quite clearly in the braziers' red firelight.

But where was the rest? Where was Créon? Where was Niobe? And where was that worthless worm Adhemar?

The monster inside his chest threw back its head and roared. Rage burned in his mind, enough to come close to putting a red veil before his eyes.

Until they turned up, he might have to wait.

There was a risk to waiting, of course, and it would increase with every passing minute, but he wanted Créon to die first, either him or Niobe. One of those two. He meant them to die on this day. So there was nothing for him but to wait for their appearance.

Unclasping his sabre belt, then the one with the dagger, to which he had fastened his quiver, and last removing the length of rope he had slung loosely around his waist, he sat down with his back to the rough stone wall and motioned Raoul to do the same. "We wait", he told him, and the boy nodded, without protest.

Patting his pockets, he searched for his bowstrings. He felt the ring, a hard lump against his thigh, and caressed the clear stone through the rough fabric of his trousers before he delved into his pocket and pulled out a handful of bowstrings. Picking one out, he laid it over his knees, then stuffed the other two back where he had taken them from. He might be needing a spare bowstring later on, but not yet.

The darkness was seething inside his head now.

His arms around his knees, Raoul sat beside him quietly, though the Phantom felt the slight nervousness he radiated. Not that the boy was afraid, not truly, but he was… tense. Uneasy. He did not know what to expect.

Braver than he had thought.

All the same, if one of them was afraid, then it was the young fool beside him. "Relax, kid", he muttered. "I can handle them."

"I'm fine", Raoul murmured. "I'm really fine. Really."

That sounded very much like trying to convince himself, more than anybody else. The Phantom smiled to himself in the darkness. Of course, the boy was not used to a night as complete as it was down here, in the deepest vaults of the Opera Populaire. While he himself… he felt at home in the darkness. The darkness was around him and inside him, just like it had always been.

Inside him, it was even deeper than outside.

Why were so many afraid of the dark? He could not recall ever dreading it. The night was gentle, like a blanket around his shoulders, protecting him, and merciful, hiding him just like his mask did.

Who had ever shown him as much generosity as the darkness of his cold dungeons?

Raoul shifted uneasily beside him. "How long do we wait?" he whispered.

That foolish boy had never truly learned to wait, most likely. "We shall see."

"It's only…" Once more the boy twitched around. "I ought to go to the privy."

The Phantom groaned. That complete idiot! "Does it have to be now?"

"Not exactly… but I'm not exactly sure I can wait for long, either."

"Satan disembowel you!" the Phantom growled. Nothing but trouble, that ridiculous little fop! "So I was right after all."

"Nice curse", Raoul whispered back. "I'll have to remember that one. And about what?"

"I thought you'd be in danger of wetting your pants before we even started."

To the Phantom's surprise, Raoul laughed softly. "But we _have_ started, haven't we? I mean, we got in a fight, alright."

"Yes, but a few dirty gypsies don't count."

"It's Créon you want."

"Yes."

There was a short pause. "But you don't like the gypsies, either."

"No."

"Madame Giry says you were their prisoner once. Until she rescued you."

There was not much to say to this. "Does she?"

"Yes. Just a few days ago."

They fell silent again, and the Phantom decided to have a few words with a certain ballet instructor. Not rough words, of course. Just… stern ones. Yes. That was suitable. That would fit with her. A few stern words.

Well, maybe more than a few, considering that she had shown that young idiot the way down to his lair. He snarled silently. Had she not shown him so much affection later on, he might well have harmed her for her treason.

"Er…" Raoul cleared his throat. "Is there any chance of some secret passage leading to a bathroom?"

Annoying little cockroach. "See the passage over there? The narrow one? Never mind, you'll see it once you're a bit closer. Follow it for a bit, and it will take you straight to a crack leading down to the sewers. Mind you don't fall in. Oh yes, and be careful, there's that hole in the ground, just in the middle of the tunnel. Nobody knows how deeps it is, but if you throw down a stone, you never hear it hit the bottom." He gave the boy a cheerful nudge. "Good luck, kid."

As Raoul ambled off into the darkness, the Phantom grinned at his retreating back. Now that had been mean, making up that abysmal hole. But imagining that fool searching for his way fretfully was just too much fun.

Pulling his quiver towards him, the Phantom took it between his knees and started counting the grey-feathered shafts inside it. Twenty-three. Good. He would lose quite a few now, he expected, for there was small chance of retrieving them from amidst his enemies, but there would be still enough left. He would have to make new ones soon, though. With a little sigh, he ran his fingers over the pigeon-feather fletchings. Making those was not easy; it took a lot of time and concentration. And in combination with sharpening the arrows… yes, he would undoubtedly have to make new ones, or else he might soon be in danger of running out of arrows. Which meant another afternoon on the roof, hunting pigeons. He sighed again. Not that they were difficult to kill; with all the idle hours spent practicing, he did not hesitate to consider himself a fine shot. But the mess of cleaning up afterwards, and especially in the snow… nobody should be given the slightest hint to suspect anything, and he was very thorough there.

He had not yet found out where to get his hands on decent arrows. The first he had had, originally stage-props just as the bow, had turned out to be not much good, yet at least they had revealed to him all he needed to know to make his own. The only thing left to wish for were metal heads; just sharpening the wood and then hardening it over the fire worked as well, but it was a question of style. However, if he could find metal arrowheads somewhere…

He let the quiver glide to the ground again and fitted on the bowstring instead. It was not a very large bow, so drawing it was not hard, and one could fit on a string in just a moment, but the disadvantage was that its range was not by far what could have been expected from a decent one.

However, it would do quite well enough for his purpose. The only trouble was his difficult position, above his victims. It would make them smaller targets than a man standing opposite him. But he had a good aim; there was nothing he could not handle.

Just a little more time, and then… Grim satisfaction spread through him, making the flames of his wrath boil higher. He would yet have his revenge. The darkness inside him raged, threatening to swallow up every conscious thought. When the time came, there would be just one wish, just one purpose on his mind: the desire to kill. Already it was there in his head, the dominant motif in a symphony of his hatred…

The power of the music of the night, Christine had said, and he had inwardly smiled at the girl. She had no idea how right she was. In a moment like this, he thought of his dire emotions and passions in terms of music, a dark, wild music playing inside his head.

_Quantus tremor est futurus…_

His wrath would be dreadful, his retaliation swift and hard.

_Confutatis maledictis…_

He would make them pay for everything they had done to him, to him and Christine.

_Quidquid latet apparebit  
Nil inultum remanebit…_

Now where was that stupid boy? Had he found a hole to fall down into after all? Why did that ridiculous creature have to spoil his perfect vengeance, just by his insufferable presence? If Raoul took any longer, he might have to go looking for him.

No, certainly not. Raoul could go to Hell, for all he cared.

But Christine had made him promise…

He fought back an agonized groan. Everything just to please Christine. He would probably run through the Opera House in a fluffy pink loincloth and an old felt hat with a stuffed pigeon on it if she just asked him to! There had to be an end to this. By having that ridiculous young snob with him, he made _himself_ look ridiculous.

Just as he thought so, Raoul re-emerged from the darkness, and the Phantom grimaced to himself. Swiftly the boy covered the space between them and allowed himself to slide down along the wall more or less comfortably. Yet there was a tone of urgency in his voice. "Listen, there's trouble", he hissed into the Phantom's ear. "I saw them, and they probably saw me, because they had torches. At least they must have known immediately that someone was up there, above them. I didn't realize they were there until later on, when they came to check if they could see somebody. I didn't know what to do, so I ran for it."

The Phantom muttered a curse which would probably have caused his old friend Claire to firmly box his ears, but the silly boy grinned with delight as he heard it. "Who is _they_?"

"Some of those servants. Gypsies. And they were armed."

"We must lose no time, then." That disgusting little bad excuse for a young nobleman spoiled _everything_! No chance to wait for the arrival of anybody more important now. It had become too risky. The Phantom got to his feet, picking up bow and quiver, and covered the distance to the open trapdoor in two swift strides. "Now", he whispered, handing over the quiver, "you simply do as I tell you. I'll climb down, and you'll hand me the arrows. Make sure you're quick about it."

"Right." The boy nodded. "But take care, will you?"

Who did he think he was, telling him that? The Phantom snorted under his breath. Stealthily he climbed down through the open trapdoor and onto the broad beam right beneath it. Now all he needed to do was to find a good position to shoot. He could kneel on the beam, which was the simplest thing to do, but his vision would be limited because his head would be slightly above trapdoor-level, then. Or he could lie down on his back, twisted so that he was practically lying on his side, and take out some enemies that way. This would give him a rather uncomfortable feeling, no doubt, and probably balance problems as well, and he could only cover one side – except if he tried to shoot left-handed, which he had never tried before – but he would be better hidden, and able to see all the way to the wall opposite the red-lit doorway with its carved cherubs. After a moment's consideration, he decided for the latter.

Raoul knelt down beside the trapdoor, his tongue caught between his teeth in excitement, and carefully handed down the first arrow. Clearly he thought this was just an adventure. That fool. In his innocence, he would probably never understand the true concept of revenge.

Slowly, very carefully, the Phantom nocked the arrow. The darkness was pulsing inside him, along with the increasing thunder of his heartbeat.

_Quidquid latet apparebit…_

The bow creaked gently as he drew it, as taut as he felt himself, and he craned his neck to pick his first target.

_Nil inultum remanebit…_

The music in his head, the music of the dark fire of his wrath, reached a wild climax as his eyes fell on the tall, broad shape of Ferox, near the end of the hall. An easy angle. An easy target.

_Nil inultum remanebit…_

He loosed the arrow.

Down below, the first man fell.

It was a beautiful way to kill.

He reached up to accept the next arrow from Raoul as panic ensued below him. Not knowing from where the arrow had come, the servants were milling about frantically. Good. He hoped they would not realize until much later on. He hoped they would give him time.

Atrox was the one to die next, clutching the feathered shaft at once sticking from his chest as he fell. The servants' panic increased.

Damn it all, why could Créon not have been here?

But Créon would die as well. He would yet see him die.

A large, muscular gypsy had his throat pierced by another arrow, and the Phantom almost smiled with content at his own deadly precision. The next found a man's heart again, and so did the one following it. Now where had that sneaky Bertrand gotten to?

_Kill them_, the monster howled in his head, _kill them all!_ Over its roars, Niobe's voice could not be heard anymore.

His next arrow killed one more gypsy, and the music in his head sang of blood and death, a truly glorious requiem.

But as he nocked another arrow, he found that it sang of something else, too.

Christine. His beloved. She was coming closer.

Curse the girls! They were not supposed to be here! For that Meg was with her was certain to him; Meg was the one to embark on adventures, not Christine. Adventures! Curse that silly girl's folly! She had no idea how dangerous this all was! But she would not believe his word; she was just as stubborn as her mother. And that she endangered Christine as well… He bared his teeth. The girl might be amusing at times, but his patience was running out.

Snarling, he drew his bow again, ready to unleash his new anger at another of those hated gypsies… only to realize that most of them had fled to the other side of the hall, and those who were still more or less in his range, seen from his current position, were practically straight below him, which made aiming difficult, as they exposed no easily vulnerable part to him.

If he only had metal arrowheads! But those hardened wooden tips, however sharp they might be, could just not to be trusted to penetrate massive bone.

Twisting around and pulling himself up smoothly into a kneeling position, but remaining crouched to see as much as possible, he surveyed the situation. Part of the servants were fleeing in panic, while others… were gazing up at the ceiling, searching for their hidden ambusher. And one had a crossbow.

Careful now. In his black attire, he was well hidden in the shadows, but they might still spot him when he leaned forward to shoot.

"Watch it", Raoul hissed urgently.

And at the edge of his awareness, he felt the threads of darkness contract.

_Come_, he thought, feeling his features twitch uncontrollably beneath his mask. _Come to me!_ _Come here and die!_

A single shape caught his attention, the figure of a woman, red-haired and in a ragged brown dress with altogether too much cleavage. Fifi stood near the exit uncertainly while others fled, her head turning this way and that, searching for who was attacking them. A smirk twisted his lips as he bent the bow again, drawing the arrow's fletching to his cheek –

He ought to take out the man with the crossbow first.

But no. That one would be still there later on, while Fifi might not.

_Nil inultum remanebit…_

Die, Fifi. Die. And wonder why while you burn in Hell.

The trumpets of Judgement Day were sounding in his head as he sent forth the arrow.

"My God!" Raoul gasped above him, flat on his stomach so he could see the more outlying regions of the hall. "You just killed a woman!"

"Yes, and a filthy gypsy wench she was", the Phantom growled. "Next arrow."

Something went whirring past them, directly past Raoul's outstretched hand, making him drop the arrow he was holding out, and the Phantom watched it descend all the way down to the ground, twenty feet below. The crossbowman had found his target at last. With an audible click the bolt met the stone ceiling and fell down again, and instinctively the Phantom snatched it out of the air as it fell past him. "Another!" he hissed at Raoul, watching the crossbowman hurriedly start to reload. "Quick!" Damn him, that one was fast.

A brief moment of pattering footsteps on the stone floor above him was all the warning he had. Raoul's head suddenly jerked up, and he threw aside the quiver and lunged for his discarded sabre, while at the same time fumbling for something under his vest, but the dark shape collided with him in mid-air, and they rolled over and over, struggling for supremacy. For a moment, a dagger in a raised hand gleamed dully in the dim light –

The Phantom leaped up through the trapdoor, casting the bow aside, snatched the attacker by his hair, yanking back his head, and without much thought rammed the crossbow bolt into the side of his neck. The man gurgled and twitched, but the Phantom stabbed again and again, until with a soft hiss the air escaped from the man's opened windpipe. With a metallic clatter, the dagger dropped to the ground beside Raoul's head, making the boy wince. The dead man's body fell to the side heavily.

Hell consume itself, he should have felt it earlier on! He should have known someone was coming!

Another crossbow bolt hit the ceiling and fell back down again.

And the threads of darkness, drawn together to a tight-meshed web, began to vibrate all around him. Something which felt like an auger passed over him, sliding off him but grazing his awareness almost painfully.

Créon knew where to search.

And if he would not find him, then at least he would find Raoul.

There was no time to lose. Pulling the boy upright, he pushed him roughly towards where they had left their things. "Quick!" he snapped. "Get your stuff and run! Run for your life!" Bow, rope, quiver and dagger-belt – luckily Raoul had not unhooked it –, the enemy's dagger, hurriedly thrust into the quiver, amidst the arrows… He saw Raoul grab both their sabres, and then they ran, back the way they had come, off into the darkness. Throwing the bow over his shoulder, the Phantom pulled Raoul along through a night which probably seemed complete to the boy. Along lightless corridors and through dark chambers they raced, the boy more stumbling blindly than running at times, up a narrow stair, until at last they came into a larger room. Gasping for breath, Raoul steadied himself against the wall. The Phantom, however, reached for his dagger. After all, he could see in he dark…

A match was struck, lighting a torch, and in the sudden flash of firelight three figures were outlined clearly, three swarthy men glaring at them balefully. And one of them, the one to the far right, he knew only too well.

"Well, well, well, son of a serpent", Kalo sneered, "we meet again. And this time, there is no-one to get in my way."

"Like the little girl with the sabre, muckraker?" the Phantom answered coldly. "I have another kid with a sabre here, with two, to be exact, and one who seems quite eager to stab more than your arm. It looks like I do not even have to get involved. However", he continued lazily, while at the same time keeping a wary eye on the gypsies and their knives, "I always wanted to know the effect of shooting an arrow into someone's eye, so your presence is very welcome. Or you can always share your filthy uncle's fate." He still had a nice length of rope with him currently, after all, but as a little experiment, a belt might do just nicely as well, if applied correctly. "Your own choice, scum."

Beside him, Raoul drew his sabre and tried a smirk. "I'll spear you, fatty", he proclaimed in a tone horribly reminding the Phantom of a boy showing off. However, the lad could fight; he had to admit so, though grudgingly.

Kalo regarded both him and Raoul furiously, then his small, malicious eyes flickered over to the two men at his side. They were both tall and muscular, and they held their long, curved knives as if they knew how to use them. "Kill them", he commanded. "Both of them."

Raoul threw back his head and laughed, just as if he had heard a fine joke. To the boy, this all seemed to be one exciting adventure. "You can try", he said.

The Phantom reached over to take his own sabre from him, offering the pair of slowly approaching thugs one of his most evil smirks – and suddenly felt his insides freeze to ice. Christine. The girls. They were in trouble. He could feel Christine's fear as clearly as he could have felt his own, had he been afraid. No, he corrected himself, he _was_ afraid. He was afraid for Christine.

Hell be cursed, there was no damn time for this!

"The girls need us", he informed Raoul hastily, urgently, feeling the uncontrollable drum-roll of his own heartbeat against the inside of his ribcage. "_Now_."

For a moment Raoul's jaw dropped. "Now?" he asked uncertainly.

"Right now", the Phantom confirmed, grabbing his sabre tighter. They had to be done with those three as fast as possible; no time to triumph over Kalo. "Make it quick."

"Right." Then Raoul did something utterly unexpected: He reached under his vest, pulled out a revolver and fired at one the approaching men, only a few feet away from him now.

The shot rang out ear-splittingly, resounding in the dark passages and corridors, making the Phantom wince, and the man's skull positively exploded. There was no other word for it. The Phantom drew back involuntarily as what seemed to be small fragments came showering down upon him, and so did the other thug. Then the man turned and ran, and Kalo followed his example. Their companion remained lying on the stone floor, and above his nose there was nothing left of the head. Nothing at all.

Now that was interesting.

No, there was no time for that! Kalo was getting away, and –

Grinding his teeth, the Phantom realized that there was no time for _that_, either. Kalo's death had to be postponed until later on. Now, they had to go and find the girls.

Curse those girls!

Re-sheathing his sabre and leaping over the fallen man's body, he already broke into a run, with Raoul close beside him, doing his best not to drop one of the many items he was carrying. "That wasn't fair", the boy panted, doing his best to keep up with the Phantom's paces in the darkness, occasionally stumbling, but never slowing. "I shouldn't have – shot him – but you said – we had to – make it quick – and if Christine – is in danger –"

"You did well", the Phantom interrupted, not wanting to think that particular thought to an end. It had certainly solved their problem rather quickly, though it lacked the proper style. It had been the best they could have done. That foolish boy truly had done well.

Sprinting up a flight of stairs to the third level, they had almost reached them. The Phantom could feel Christine's proximity, as well as her anguish, her fear. _I'm coming_, he tried to soothe her. _I'm coming for you._ But the feeling in his head did not change.

Turning around a corner, Raoul almost colliding with the wall because he could hardly see anything, they glimpsed light ahead and redoubled their efforts. It was coming towards them, a flickering torch, the light dancing madly as the one carrying it was running for dear life. Two slender shapes, both in men's clothes, their hair streaming out behind them…

How lovely she was.

And though he could not see the pursuers, he could feel them. They were close. Very close. And they were many.

What had those foolish girls been up to? What had Meg gotten his beloved Christine into?

Suddenly an idea formed in his mind, and he held out an arm for Raoul to stop. They both skidded to a halt, Raoul almost losing his balance as he very nearly stumbled over a piece of rock in the darkness and cursing softly to himself. Experimentally the Phantom knocked against the wall with his knuckles. Yes! Precisely! He had remembered it correctly. And he saw it, if he observed it closely enough, although that was difficult without a bit more light. "We have to stop them", he told the boy, who nodded eagerly, finally sheathing his sabre. "Right at this point."

And there they came, Christine launching herself at Raoul, while Meg tried to hug the Phantom while still holding the torch. Swiftly he dodged her, then threw himself at Raoul with some force, dragging Meg with him, slamming the boy and Christine into the wall – which gave way smoothly. For a moment his world tilted, and he ducked as the torch sizzled by overhead. Then they all landed in a tangled heap on the rough stone floor beyond it.

There was a moment of ringing silence outside, then the sounds of pursuit rushed by.

Breathing heavily, they all remained lying between their jumbled equipment, huddled closely together.

After a moment, Meg came crawling over to the Phantom and buried her face against his chest, sobbing softly. "It's all my fault", she whimpered. "It was my idea, and I almost got us killed…" Disentangling his hand from his own quiver, which had apparently littered part of the ground in arrows, he patted her head soothingly. "But you wouldn't let us come", Meg sobbed, still trembling slightly with shock. "You left us all alone with the little children, and the only thing we could do was worry about you. You did not even give us a chance to help…"

"Quiet, little one", the Phantom murmured into her hair. A moment ago he had been angry with her, but now he found that it was quite difficult to be angry with someone who snuggled against him and even stroked his chest.

Sly little creature. He could have laughed out loud.

And in a way, he understood. It was true, they had not given the girls any chance in the slightest. They could have found another reason for not taking them on this particular mission, not just that they were girls. Otherwise, it reminded him too much of himself, cast out from society, hunted and feared by everyone just for what he was, what he had been born as. "You will not just be left out again", he whispered, stroking her hair. "I promise."

Beside them, Christine had wrapped her arms around Raoul's neck, and they were cooing to each other in a most ridiculous way. The Phantom ground his teeth. Why would she choose that idiot over him? Why did that insolent fop have to turn up precisely when he wanted to make Christine his own completely? And why did Christine have to fall in love with that slimy thing?

No, he was not exactly being fair. That boy had some qualities to him –

But all the same, he was an utterly unnecessary bag of sticky slime!

Finally sitting up, Raoul groaned and massaged his shoulder. "Did you really have to do it that way?" he complained in a whisper. "But thanks for saving my life." Taking off his mask at last, he wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve.

"Don't mention it", the Phantom replied, the irony of it boring into his heart like a needle. To win Christine's love, he had rescued the one who had stolen all her affection from him, and not only once, but twice…

But had he really thought of earning Christine's love when he had saved the boy? To his own irritation, he had to admit to himself that he had not. No, he had saved the boy… because the boy had been in danger. He had saved the stupid little fop for his own sake.

Why? Why would he do any such thing?

But then Christine gave him a brief, but tight hug, and all other thoughts dissolved into nothingness.

At last they all let go of each other and picked themselves up, and the Phantom collected all the arrows spread on the ground and restored them into the quiver, assisted by Meg. Just fifteen left.

Had it really been worth the trouble? Only two Lost Ones dead, and a handful of gypsies, and no-one really important, when what he had wanted to do was kill Créon, or at least Niobe. Should their mission not be considered a failure?

But had he truly believed that they would succeed with this?

The music in his head had calmed down to a gentle whisper of regret, of all the glory he had missed… of the beauty of his own death.

With a silent sigh, he made himself abandon all his bitter thoughts. "We're not safe here", he reminded the others. "Not for long."

Meg's head swung around as if already searching for new attackers, and he calmed her by a hand gently placed on her upper arm. While he belted on his sabre as well as the one dagger he had taken with him, just as Meg wore his other dagger, she seemed to wait impatiently until he took her hand in his. While he replaced his new-won trophy dagger in the quiver, she almost scowled at him.

Squeezing Meg's hand gently, he turned to see if Christine was coming. Like he had expected, his beloved was holding on to her annoying fiancé for dear life. The Phantom wrinkled his nose at Raoul. How could anyone?

Christine frowned at Raoul's clothing. "You're covered in dirt, sweetheart", she stated. "You need a bath."

Raoul grinned, tucking his mask into his belt. "Well, if you will accompany me…"

"_Raoul!_"

The Phantom grimaced silently, holding Meg's hand tighter, while Raoul snickered like a naughty schoolboy.

"Where have you been rolling around, anyway?" Christine asked suspiciously, though caressing Raoul's cheek as she did so. "Erik looks much cleaner than you. Dusty, yes, but not splashed with the occasional bit of… is that mud?"

The Phantom smirked. "I reckon you don't want to touch that, child. Very likely, it's somebody's brains."

Immediately Christine recoiled, withdrawing the hand she had stretched out towards Raoul's lapels. "Erik, that's _disgusting_!" she protested.

Raoul continued snickering. "He's probably right, love."

"Raoul…" Christine's lovely features took on an expression of shock, and the Phantom regretted ever bringing it up. "What happened?"

"Later, love", Raoul answered gently. "When we're all back home."

We all? The Phantom frowned slightly. Surely the boy did not intend to take him along again?

Meg squeezed his hand. "Is Raoul really covered in somebody's brains?" she asked, her eyes already shining again with their usual adventurous gleam. She actually seemed delighted at the idea.

He sighed. "Not now, little one." Anyway, it was good to see her cheerful spirits return, and her hand felt so warm in his, just like Christine's presence warmed his heart.

No, he would not leave them behind again. Not ever again.


	57. VIII Nothing can harm you

**VIII. Nothing can harm you**

Before long, they were back at Raoul's home, locked up in his room in the company of the new dog and a lovely platter of cake, all freshly bathed and wearing fresh clothes. And though the men had told their story very vividly, and despite the unstrung bow leaning in a corner, beside the Phantom's leather scrip, all their dark adventures seemed very distant and unreal now.

Having just recounted her adventures of last night, leaving out only her quarrel with the Phantom – she might tell Raoul in private, later on – Christine now rested her head on her fiancé's shoulder, enormously relieved that he had taken no offence at all. Luckily Meg had decided to do the same with the Phantom, sitting at the edge of Raoul's desk, so there was no need to fear trouble coming from him. Meg's displays of affection seemed to have a pleasantly calming effect on him, and it certainly distracted him from turning his hungry gaze on herself. Christine was not quite sure if it was the best for Meg, though.

"Créon must die", Raoul said firmly, one arm around her shoulders. "He's a danger to all of us. No, much more than that. To the entire Opera House. And once he has it, to the whole city. In the end, to the whole world, perhaps."

"So you intend to save the world, kid." Christine noted with satisfaction that the Phantom's sarcasm towards her fiancé now sounded much less biting, more like an elder brother teasing a younger. But she was sure that he restrained himself for her own sake, not for Raoul's.

"Yes", Raoul answered. "Yes, if that is so, I do."

Christine snuggled against him tighter. So brave!

"How about you?" Meg asked, watching with amusement how the dog padded over to the Phantom, placed its front paws against his knees and started to chew his trousers. "You mean to do the same thing, don't you?"

"I mean to destroy Créon", the Phantom replied grimly, yet he picked up the dog very gently. "But I won't save the world. The world can burn to ashes, for all I care. I just want my Opera House back, that's all." The dog started to lick his mask enthusiastically. "And I want my revenge."

Yes, Christine believed every word of what he said. He was so full of bitterness, full of hatred. The world had turned its back on him, so he had turned his back on the world. In the back of her head, she was still constantly aware of him, and she had gotten used to it by now and could tell his and her own feelings apart easily. And all the time she felt it, underlying his every emotion, even his ardent love for her: that consuming fire of hate burning in his heart. It made her afraid.

And yet, at the same time, it made her pity him, for all he had was his own darkness.

But was he truly that cold towards everything around him? However harsh his words, he had held a young animal in his arms at the same time, and he still did, stroking its fluffy fur, scratching its ears. Deep down inside, he _did_ care.

And maybe, if they managed to dissipate his loneliness, he would be ready to show he did.

The only problem about it was that he needed a woman who could love him, and whom he could love in return, or else he would never be able to forget his grief over Christine.

Meg gave the Phantom's chest a slap, right beside the dog's head, and the dog used the occasion to lick her hand. "I do hope your burning to ashes does not include me."

"No. Not you." He sighed softly, as with heavy sorrow, and the dog gave a small whine of sympathy. "I think I'll go back, then."

Christine just stared, while Raoul frowned at him. "What do you mean, you'll go back?" Raoul inquired.

"Quite simple, kid: That I'll go back home now."

Christine exchanged a worried glance with Meg. He could not be serious… or could he?

"Are you meaning to say you'll go back to the Opera House? Mate, you're bloody crazy!"

"No", the Phantom replied calmly. "You stay here, but I'll return. I don't want you all to get hurt because of me. Not even you, kid. And they need me much more there."

"Please, Erik", Christine tried, "you endanger yourself unnecessarily."

"My place is with my people", he insisted. "And with your mother, Meg. You're not in danger here; you're too far away. But Claire is. And all the others are."

"We could ask my mother to come here", Meg suggested, though from the hint of a sulk around her lips it was obvious that she had been looking forward to another night of happy Phantom-snuggling, something her mother would certainly never allow. Meg claimed that she was not in love with him, and Christine tended to believe her, yet still... her friend was more than a bit crazy about the Phantom.

"You know she won't. She'll say just the same as I just have. She feels responsible for all of them. And so do I. If any harm comes to them, it's my fault." There was a harsh, bitter undertone to his voice now. "Two are already dead, and it's my fault. Because I was a fool and thought I'd kill Créon and all the others with my bare hands. Because of my own foolish pride!"

"There was no way you could know how powerful Créon really is", Meg tried to comfort him.

But he turned away from her. "Yes, and two men died for my folly. I can't let that happen again. I must not."

Christine admitted to herself, that she would have expected anything from him, but not this. She had always thought that he valued others' lives for nothing, but now… "Why?" she asked, wanting to hear it repeated from his own lips. There was good in him! She had known there was!

"Because it's _my_ Opera House, that's why", the Phantom replied grimly. "Those are _my_ people. And as long as I'm there, Créon will not harm them – or else suffer the consequences."

The warmth suddenly rising inside her made Christine smile. She had been right about him, after all. "You may pretend to be a villain, Erik", she said fondly, "but you sound like a hero."

He smiled weakly in return. "I'm not trying to be heroic. I'm simply doing what I have to."

"But this is what heroes do", she pointed out, and Raoul even nodded to it, though somewhat reluctantly. Maybe he was an angel, after all.

The Phantom shrugged, but the warmth Christine felt inside her was mirrored in his eyes now.

"If you truly want to do this…" Gently loosing Christine's grip on him, Raoul went to pick up something from among the things lying jumbled on his bed. "I'm not entirely sure about this, I must say, but… Christine, how far would you trust him?"

Christine gave both men a little smile. "Not exactly with my virtue", she answered, "but with my life, any time."

"Very well", Raoul said. "You take it, then." And he held out his revolver for him.

While the Phantom started packing all his things, Raoul wrapped his arms around Christine tightly. "He'll be alright", he comforted her softly, reassuring despite the note of hesitance in his voice. "And so will you. While you're with me, nothing can harm you. Nothing ever."

Christine stretched up to kiss his cheek and whispered in his ear, "You're my own personal hero, Raoul."


	58. BOOK NINE: The Breath of Evil

**Book Nine: The Breath of Evil**

I. What a splendid Party!  
II. All the Sadness of the World  
III. Creature of Darkness  
IV. Slave of Fashion  
V. Look back on all those Times  
VI. Talking in Riddles  
VII. Child of the Wilderness  
VIII. Turn around and face your Fate  
IX. Close your Eyes  
X. See why in Shadow I hide

Author's Note: _Just the usual: Thank you to all reviewers for their cries of undying support, etc, etc. Sorry, my head is getting just as swollen as Carlotta's. ;) Well, at least you truly made my night._

_And since I now own the DVD (at last!), a brief, but necessary comment on changes I made for this narrative, due to forgetting what it was like in the cinema. Most important, I realized that the Phantom seems to be wearing a wig, which I didn't quite see earlier on (I merely wondered why his hair shifted colour towards the end g). I will stick with that change and leave him his real hair. Also, I wrongly accused him of removing Christine's corset (I thought she wasn't wearing it anymore when she woke up again, which is an error). I let him go barefoot when he first comes to the Opera, which he doesn't, and, more important, I forgot that young Mme Giry sees his face at the fair already. I gave Christine her own room, while actually she still seems to sleep in a dormitory. I describe Lefevre as lean, which does not quite fit. And the outfit Meg wears at the end rather seems to be some kind of Don Juan related costume, not stuff of her father's. And the image of the lair I had in my head was somewhat different, more drawn out. And I once call the organ a harmonium, which the Phantom would certainly never forgive. I hope you will, though._

_There is, however, something new: This start-of-Book chapter (or whatever we shall call it) contains SPOILERS FOR THE SEQUEL TO THIS STORY. So don't read on if you don't like spoilers._

_1) The sequel will also be divided into ten Books, which will all have similarly constructed titles. Yes, I know them already. No, I'm not telling you._

_2) The first ten actors (and actresses, I have nothing against women, so don't run and complain g) appearing on the cast list are, in that order: Gerard Butler, Emmy Rossum, Patrick Wilson, Jennifer Ellison, Kate Beckinsale, Miranda Richardson, Gary Oldman, Arnold Vosloo, Bruce Willis, and Alan Rickman._

_3) Other new cast members will include Hugh Jackman, Liam Neeson, Rupert Everett, and Viggo Mortensen, as well as some hot girls (but you're only interested in the men, anyway g)._

_4) Yep, the Phantom is finally going to make his first experiences as far as… well, women are concerned._

_5) Raoul's parents are going to appear._

_6) Many characters from the first part will reappear, some with a rather larger role. But very many will be new; the cast list will be considerably longer._

_7) We will learn something important about the Phantom's origin, as well as the other Lost Ones._

_8) The historical background will be very important… (just a reminder: French-German war…)_

_9) The Phantom will be working on a new opera._

_10) All reviews will be answered at the beginning of each chapter. That is encouraging to reviewers, isn't it? ;)_

_Right, tell me what you think. )_


	59. I What a splendid Party!

**I. What a splendid Party!**

The order had been issued that the cellars were strictly out of bounds for everyone, and that Opera personnel should only move about in pairs, if not in larger groups. After that, the managers felt that they had done what they could do. But the accursed Ghost would strike as well above ground, anyway.

Currently they were doing their best to forget all their troubles, though. In their private office, a rather large party was assembled, consisting of some of their friends as well as of some members of staff and other Opera personnel. And the later it got, the jollier the managers' guests became.

Everybody froze as the door was suddenly thrown open with a bang, and they all stood transfixed in the crowded office, staring at the figure regarding them from the shadows.

He was a man, tall and pale and with dark hair down to his shoulders. His brow was high, his profile sharp, and a scrap of cloth slung around the head covered the place where one eye should have been, on the right side, where an old, deep scar ran across the eye socket, like cloven with a sword. Yet still, his one-eyed gaze was captivating, that one single bright eye's power nailing everybody's feet to the ground just where they stood. His tall form garbed in flowing black robes, the stranger stepped over the threshold and then remained where he was, subjecting everybody to his scrutinizing gaze.

"The Opera Ghost!" a few voices cried.

The one-eyed man smiled.

Messieurs André and Firmin exchanged a nervous glance. This certainly wasn't part of the program, but it was not the Opera Ghost, either. Surely they could not be _that_ drunk yet?

"'Oo is zat _sinisterr_ man?" hissed Carlotta Guidicelli, the Opera Populaire's acclaimed diva, dramatically.

The one-eyed man's smile widened as he turned his single pale eye on her, and Carlotta winced under his gaze. "A pleasure to meet you, Madame", he proclaimed with a mock little bow. His voice was rich and deep, yet lacked all warmth. "And you all, Mesdames and Messieurs. A good evening to every single one of you. What an entertaining little party, I must say. I hate to cut your celebrations short, yet it is best if you meet your new patron _right now_."

There should have been an outbreak of surprised whispers, but instead, the silence was complete. The look André and Firmin exchanged was frantic this time. No, no chance of blaming the alcohol this time.

The man was still smiling, yet it never reached his one cold, empty eye. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Créon, and you may call me Master. I am the one in complete control of this Opera House and of every living soul within its walls, including your Opera Ghost."

There was movement in the semidarkness of the doorway behind him, and the shape of a man appeared at his shoulder, tall and athletically built, though less tall than Créon, and with fair hair cut short. He would not have seemed exceptional, apart from the five gauges running over the right side of his face, like from a hand dragging its clawed fingers through it. Suddenly there were gasps, and some of the assembled guests staggered, on the point of fainting.

Not acknowledging the newcomer's presence in the least, Créon continued, "Indeed, the rebellious young man known as the Ghost, or the Phantom, is nothing but my vassal, there to do my bidding. He may believe he is resisting, yet already I am steering his every action, and I have been doing so before tonight, longer than he can possibly imagine. He is mine completely. And so are you, from now on. All of you.

"However, if some of you think that rebellion is a wise option, be warned: All the people recently meeting their end here have in fact, despite what you may have heard and believed, died at my own sentence of death, though perhaps at another's hands. But what does it matter whose hands do the service? The will is still mine, and all who oppose me will die."

There was a dull thud as two ladies fainted and hit the ground simultaneously, but none rushed to help them. Everybody stood transfixed, unable to move.

"Indeed", Créon said, very softly, very gently, "the mere thought of opposing me is a death sentence in itself." Once again his pale eye's gaze swivelled to Carlotta. "So you had better banish that thought from your head _right now_, Madame."

Carlotta's jaw dropped, then began to work furiously, as if trying to form words, yet none came out.

"I have a little task for you", Créon continued, "one you will not be able to refuse. From now on, you will serve my vassal the Phantom as his bedfellow, keeping him entertained in whatever way he wishes, and reporting everything to me, even the most delicate detail."

The thudding sound was repeated as another lady fainted. At Créon's shoulder, the man with the claw-marred face smirked.

But Carlotta had finally found her voice again. "Zis is _outrrageous_!" she screeched. "I will cerrtainly meet none of yourr imperrtinent demands!"

"You will, Madame", Créon answered calmly. "You will. As I said, you will not be able to refuse, and I do not like having to repeat myself."

Carlotta seemed to be going to say something, but then her dark eyes met his one blue, and she swallowed visibly, the colour draining from her face. She was a tall woman, taller than most, yet Créon towered over her like a monstrous shadow.

André was shaking quite obviously, raking his hands through his already dishevelled hair, while Firmin was tugging at his moustache incessantly.

"Excellent", Créon stated. "I see you all have understood. As yet, there is nothing in particular I have to do for you, no orders as yet. But expect them to be issued soon. And expect to be punished most grievously if you do not immediately obey. Serve me, and maybe be rewarded beyond the wildest dreams of man. Disobey me, and you will have a lifetime to study an entirely new dimension of pain." He bowed his head to the assembled in greeting. "This will be all. Adhemar, after me." Turning on his heel sharply, he strode out, the man with the claw-scars following immediately in his wake.

After he was gone, there was stunned silence for several seconds, in which yet another lady fainted. Then, at last, throats were cleared, and there were several nervous coughs. A few stunned murmurs rose, but barely enough to dissipate the silence.

"Créon", André muttered, now resorting to tugging at his moustache just as well. "They mentioned that name. All the time."

"He's real", Firmin whispered, pale beneath his voluminous dark forelock. "He's real…"

"And Adhemar."

"He's _real_…"

Carlotta drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Zat man", she began shakily, "zat man…" Then she fell silent again.

"Blimey", André murmured, "we need that Ghost."

Firmin could only nod to this.


	60. II All the Sadness of the World

**II. All the Sadness of the World**

Her hand rested on his upper arm, a spot of warmth amid all the cold encompassing him. His spirit was floating in the void, away from his body, feeling even the slightest reverberations around him. The threads of darkness were still there, everywhere, stopping abruptly before him and curving around him, not touching him. When concentrating, he could feel their source, moving slowly through the upper levels of the Opera House.

Créon had come into the open at last, and he was not entirely sure if this was a good thing.

He was not entirely sure if it was a bad thing, either.

Yet while floating in the void, emotions were far away, just a distant awareness of something not truly important.

Christine had become a dim, distant awareness, too.

But he still loved her. He was sure of that. He madly, obsessively loved her.

The hand shifted slightly on his arm, and he opened his eyes and returned to his body, to reality. Claire Giry was close beside him, clothed in a sleeveless white nightshirt, her long blond hair, normally worn in a long braid pinned up intricately, hanging down over her shoulders now. She looked less stern that way, much less stern. And a lot more attractive.

"You should really try to get some sleep", she insisted. "There's a spare blanket for you, and the carpet is quite soft. But you can also use the sofa if you prefer, only it will probably be a bit too short for you to stretch out on it."

"I'll roll off", he said absent-mindedly. Where was Niobe currently? What was she up to?

She laughed softly, giving his arm a friendly pat. "Oh, we don't want this, now do we? You'll have to stretch out on the carpet, then. It's almost traditional."

"It's been a long time." Covering her hand with his, he remained where he was, close to her. It felt good to have someone near. For a moment his eyes lingered on the full curves of her breasts, before he snapped his gaze back to her face and mentally berated himself for his permanent lusting. But he did not truly get a guilty feeling, he realized. He always got one when fantasizing about spending a night with Christine; Christine was too pure a being to think of in that way. He had felt slightly guilty when considering the same possibilities with Meg, as well, though much less so, and partly because he would be breaching her mother's trust, in a way, if he just took the girl to bed to offer him satisfaction at last. Yet with Claire… No, he did not feel guilty about that idea. Maybe it was because she had been married, which meant that she was not untouched any more. Maybe it was because she was older than the other two and less innocent. And she could certainly say no to him in case he bothered her, something he was not too sure about with both girls; she was not defenceless.

Maybe he just found the permanent risk of having his ears boxed appalling? He grinned to himself at the idea.

Would Claire want a lover, after all those years as a widow? Did she still long for her husband's touch sometimes, and would she accept the same from him?

"I can't see what you are leering at like that", she stated, arching her eyebrows at him. This was not exactly an ear-boxing look, but it might turn into one if he said the wrong thing. That would have to be a _very_ wrong thing, though; there was a merry twinkle in her eyes as well.

"Why, you, of course", he replied teasingly, truly leering at her. How marvellous it would be to just be able to forget Créon and Niobe and all the Lost Ones for some time!

But no, he could not. He could not allow himself to. This was his responsibility, though he had no idea how he should protect all the people at the Opera House at once. He could not think about any kind of physical pleasures now, not when those whose protection was entrusted to him were in danger.

If Créon only had been there this afternoon! That accursed man could have been dead by now. Killing him would be a lot more difficult now.

How he wished he were done with them, done with it all, free of them at last!

He would ask Claire to sleep with him once he was. She had experience, which would be useful for his first time. So if he decided to try it with Meg later on, he would not be entirely clueless anymore. Not that he truly had no idea how to do it; in fact, he had a pretty good idea, but he would just be nervous, he knew it. And he would feel foolish if it did not exactly work as he had expected. Taking Claire first was better. Meg could wait a bit.

And he was being dirty-minded again. They both were friends; it was not right to think of them in such a way.

Oh well… Claire could really take care of herself, and she was not an innocent girl anymore. She could protect herself against him, if she wanted to. And he would certainly not force himself on her.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Get under your blankets, then, and don't be a bother." Blowing out the lone candle on the little table beside her bed, she threw back her own blankets and settled in, pulling them around herself. Her bed looked quite nice and warm, while the carpet… of course, it would be comfortable enough for him on the floor, but he would much prefer the bed.

He sighed. Should he lie down at all? Maybe it was better if he remained awake.

Taking a seat at the edge of her bed, he picked up the only other item on the tiny table apart from the now gently smoking candle: the revolver. He was not used to that kind of weapon, and he was not quite sure if he could really handle it correctly. Raoul had explained, of course, and he had paid attention, yet he had never shot the thing. Not that that would be too difficult; the weapon was loaded and ready to be shot. It was just… he was not used to it.

And it was not really stylish.

"I wish you wouldn't fiddle around with that thing", Claire commented, settling for lying on her back comfortably at last.

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Why? What do you think I'll do with it?"

She stifled a yawn. "Just put it down and try to get some sleep. It is the only sensible thing you can do right now."

"I'm not sure", he objected. "What if Créon tries anything while I'm asleep?"

"You'll feel it if he does something really bad", Claire meant. "I trust you to that."

He nodded slowly, still rather unconvinced. Before he had come here, he had trained again with Christine, and he thought he might really wake, but he wasn't sure. He just wasn't sure.

Hell be cursed, there was too much he could not be sure of currently.

"At least you'll feel it if he comes here", she said, yawning. "I'll fall asleep feeling perfectly safe with you here. Now don't be silly and prepare for bed. Catching some sleep and recovering your strength is the best service you can do your men."

He sighed. She was probably right, though he still had a bad feeling about it. Replacing the revolver on the bedside cabinet and checking his sabre's position beside it, he slowly began undressing. Should he give it a try? There was nothing to do for him at the moment, so he might as well.

Having stripped down to his underpants, he placed his clothes over a chair before he returned to the bed. "Move over a bit", he said.

Sitting half up, she directed a frown at his remaining piece of clothing. It was a special one, actually, of a rich blue and cut off only immediately above the knee because of the lines of green and the gold embroidery along his outer thighs. The sparse light remaining in the room was enough to recognize all that. Indeed, he was just dressed for the occasion.

"Those were Jules's", she said softly. "I remember them only too well. He even slept in them occasionally. I used to be quite fond of them, but he didn't like them much."

"He gave them to me himself", the Phantom said. She probably knew anyway, but it was better to make sure she knew in case she had forgotten.

"I know." Claire sighed softly. She missed her husband still, he knew she did. After all, why else would she still wear black, after all those years? She had loved her Jules dearly, and it had been hard for her to get over the loss. He was not even sure if she had ever managed to entirely.

Suddenly sitting up completely, she climbed out of bed again. "I need to look at the picture again before I fall asleep" she said.

He nodded wordlessly and rose to turn on the gas lights. Yes, she truly missed her husband. Following her over into her little sitting room, he looked over her shoulder at what she had taken from one of her desk drawers and was now holding. It was a pencil drawing, showing a young couple embracing. The young woman was resting her head against a slender, fair-haired youth's shoulder, and he was looking down at her very tenderly. It was still easy enough to recognize who the young woman on the picture was, but the Phantom recalled the other face just as well. He had known Jules, after all. He had seen him every day. "Have you ever shown it to Meg?"

"No. I show it to nobody." She spoke in a whisper, very tonelessly. " It's – I can't explain. You're the only one who knows about it."

He slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders. After that recent night, he owed that much to her. "And I'm the one who drew it."

"I'm grateful you did." One single tear rolled down her cheek and dripped onto her nightshirt. "I would be afraid I might forget him, otherwise."

He gently kissed her temple. "You won't. Not ever." Hell be damned, he was getting good at that!

For a moment she rested her head on his shoulder, then she pulled away and replaced the picture where she had taken it from. "Come on. Time to sleep."

She grumbled a little as he slipped under her blankets beside her after extinguishing the lights, but he only chuckled and curled up comfortably, and she let him. He assumed she was glad to have someone near, when remembering Jules.

"Come here", she muttered, "and take that silly mask off, for goodness's sake." With a bit of hesitation, and a frown at the word "silly", he did so, placing it on the small bedside cabinet, which appeared quite crowded now, and she pulled him towards her, so he could rest his cheek on her shoulder. He winced as his scarred skin touched her smooth one, but she did not pull away. Instead, she held him there, ignoring his accursed ugliness. Just as she had always done. "Now be a good boy and sleep, and woe betide you if you try to wander off at night."

At first he wanted to withdraw, especially since she apparently intended to treat him like a child once again – Hell, he had lain just like that with Meg, only that he was taking Meg's position currently! – but it was so marvellously warm with her under the blanket, and her hand rested on his side gently, right where Adhemar's boot had left a mark, but her touch was so light that it did not hurt him.

Still, he was not wearing very much, and she was too close for him to feel comfortable…

Wasn't that exactly what he had wanted? You damn coward, he told himself. You'll never get to sleep with a woman if you can't even take your clothes off and have her touch you without blushing like a girl!

No, not blushing. Never blushing. But still, he was being a fool. Why was he so shy suddenly?

Giving himself a mental kick, he put an arm around her waist. As if he had ever been shy before! Well, as a boy, maybe. And sometimes, when encountering Christine…

Christine… Something inside him contracted painfully.

Forget her, he told himself crossly, starting to stroke Claire's side. Just forget her. Take what you can get, and banish her from your mind.

But he knew that this was impossible. He would never be able to. He loved her.

You pathetic wretch. You goddamn disgusting pathetic wretch.

"Relax", Claire murmured soothingly. "It's alright. Everything's alright. Sleep now."

It took him some concentration to force the tension out of his body, but her gentle touch helped. He had been a fool, withdrawing from her like that, only for fear that she might recognize his vulnerability. Instead, he had only increased it. Why had he not taken the chance fate had offered him when Jules had died? There would be no second chance. There never was. Not for him to take Jules's place, and not for him to have Christine again.

Why did he always see his loss only after it had unchangeably occurred? Why was he so blind?

In his head, a lone violin sang of sadness and a love forever lost.

He would use it for his requiem.

_Lacrimosa dies illa…_

Christine, forgive me. Please forgive me. And Claire… you too.

_Qua resurget ex favilla  
Iudicandus homo reus…_

It was too late. Too late for pardon, too late for regret.

_Huic ergo parce, Deus…_

A fallen angel would not be redeemed.

He only realized he was crying when Claire stroked his hair and murmured soothing words to him, holding him close. What she was saying, he did not quite understand, except for two words, repeated continually: _my darling_.

One of these days, he thought as he comfortably snuggled into her embrace, enjoying her attention, Claire was surely going to adopt him.

Yes, this was just right. As long as he kept his sarcasm, nothing could really hurt him for long. Nothing at all. He had to be cold and hard inside in this hostile world, never bind himself to anyone, never love…

Which he did all the same, and all he wanted currently was being loved in return, and if not by Christine, then at least by Claire.

He had rejected Claire before, he remembered. Well, not exactly rejected, but he had withdrawn from her. In a way, they had become estranged. He had chosen to hide his thoughts and feelings, to become cold and hard as hammered steel, instead of taking Jules's place. For some time he had hesitated; it had not been an easy decision. There had been that moment when he had almost softened, that moment when Claire had given him her newborn baby to hold…

_She rested her head against his shoulder as he experimentally rocked the small bundle in his arms. So light, and so tiny! "Thank God she is alright", Claire whispered, tenderly stroking the baby's rosy cheek with her forefinger. "I could not bear to lose her, too."_

_"Why do you always thank God?" he asked. How could anyone be that tiny? He must have been such a tiny thing himself once, he guessed._

_"Because I need something to believe in", Claire answered patiently. They had had that discussion before. "Especially… in hard times."_

_Yes, he could see her point, but still… God was illogical, and just a story made up by some desert-dwelling primitives. He could not make himself believe in any such thing._

_The baby blinked up at him sleepily – such small eyelids! – and made an odd little gurgling sound, and he hurriedly rocked her some more. "Am I doing this right?" he inquired cautiously._

_Claire giggled softly, snaking one arm around his waist. "You're definitely improving."_

_"What, only improving?" He faked an expression of indignation. "I didn't yet drop her or anything!" He was fooling around with Claire again, he realized, something he had thought he had quit for good. Hell be damned, it was time to show her he was a grown man, not her little brother!_

_She giggled again, poking him in the ribs with a finger teasingly. "With some practice, you'll be just perfect, darling."_

_Darling?__ Now what did she mean by _that_? Was she playing some silly game again, being childish… or was she thinking of him in other terms perhaps, maybe even as a lover? No, she could not possibly do so; nobody ever would. She was being foolish again, that was all. Nothing more._

_Though when he considered it… He might really take the place left vacant by Jules's death. He might have a chance. He could try to step in and pretend to be Claire's husband, as well as her small girl's father. He could – his breath caught at the idea – he could give Claire the second child she and Jules had wanted to have. He could be the father of her son._

_That was a thought so stunning that he could hardly harbour it in his mind._

_But if Claire bore another child… people would begin to wonder. There would be talk, gossip more probably – especially if the desired son would turn out to be a monster, just like his father._

_He swallowed. Someone like him should not have children. Someone like him should not even try it._

_And that tiny, innocent creature in his arms, that small girl smiling up at him, deserved better than him as a father. He would never be good enough for any child, not for that of another, and certainly not for one of his own._

He never would.

Whimpering softly against Claire's shoulder, he enjoyed the sympathy she offered him, along with her caresses. He was being a fool, and behaving like a most pathetic creature, but it made her display an affection she would not show him otherwise.

Funny, it briefly occurred to him, how women seemed to like it when you cried in their presence…

It was all his own fault. Had he not withdrawn from her and sought solitude, he could have had it always, all the time. Claire would have accepted him, he knew it. He had seen it in her mind. But he had realized that he could never be what Jules had been to her. He had realized it the moment little Meg had first reached up to take his mask away.

He had positively fled into his dark exile, feeling that even being near that innocent child, while at the same time being such a monster, such a horrid creature from Hell, was a crime in itself.

He had seriously considered killing himself for the first time on that night, he remembered. And how many times he had again done so, later on… But when it came to it, he had never been quite ready to let go. He had always hung on, though he had known all the time that his life was worth nothing.

Now, he had to. There was no choice but to go on. He owed them that much, all of them. Especially Christine, but the others, too. Claire and Meg, and those three who had come to him so trustingly, who had called him Lord, Gaston and Serge and Hulot. Even that silly fop, Raoul de Chagny. Those two men he had failed to save, Claude and Jacques. Those two names would forever be burned into his mind. And all the others who lived and worked here, all the many nameless faces, all the many eyes gazing at him imploringly out of the darkness of his own mind. He had been their nemesis, until he had found that he was their saviour.

Clenching his teeth, he snuggled tighter into Claire's embrace. Créon would fall. Créon would die. And so would Niobe.

They believed in him. They all did. Those three workers, and Claire and Meg, and even that annoying little monkey of a boy, in his own way, and Christine. Christine, most of all. It was Christine who kept him going now. Likely he would have given up at last on that night she had left him, given up and lain down to die, if not for the ring she had gently placed in his palm and closed his fingers around it, a farewell gift he certainly did not deserve after all he had done to her, a token of love. Not the kind of love he had longed to have, perhaps, but still, more than he could ever have asked for.

No, he would not doubt the little love she certainly gave him now. He would not doubt it again.

And he would be the brother she had wished for to her, even if it broke his heart.

Claire was playing with his hair, twirling loose strands around her fingers, just like Meg had done on the previous night. He let her, savouring the sensation of her other hand on his bare skin, caressing his side. Those women could be nothing but trouble, but they had a tendency to find out what one liked rather quickly…

He was starting to feel drowsy, which probably was a good sign; it meant that he was going to sleep all night. All he needed to do now was stretch out and find a suiting position – which he already had, with his head on Claire's shoulder. Yawning, he settled down comfortably beside her. Just as Claire had told him to, he would fall asleep now and rest, forgetting everything around him for a short, blessed time.

But early enough, he would be up again. High time to sleep.

Except maybe… It was worth the try. Very slowly and carefully, he shifted his left hand, resting on the side of her stomach, so it came to lie right beneath the curve of her right breast, experimentally brushing against it with his thumb. So soft, Hell devour him, so marvellously soft… Gently, he let his hand travel a little higher, so that he cupped it with his fingers…

Her own hand emerged from nowhere, gently yet firmly took him around the wrist and moved his hand back to her stomach. "Behave yourself", Claire muttered sleepily, "or I'll kick you out of bed."

Such a sweet temper! He almost laughed. This was his Claire just as he knew her.

Anyway, it had been worth the trouble, he decided, grinning to himself. That softness was truly amazing.

Snuggling into her embrace as tightly as he could, he fell asleep at last.


	61. III Creature of Darkness

**III. Creature of Darkness**

The boy was gone from Créon's awareness.

All the same, he would come back.

Still, Créon had to admit to himself that this changed things. The boy was young and inexperienced, but he was strong, very strong. Much stronger than he had at first assumed. He would have preferred to know his exact location and condition. This way, they knew that he was going to turn up again eventually and spring the trap prepared for him, but until he sprang it, they would have to wait blindly. The boy's stealth was remarkable.

He could only hope that they had not already come too late for it all to go smoothly. Maybe there would have to be a change of plans to make the boy submit in the necessary way. But submit the boy would, whatever it took. Submit he would. There was no doubt of it.

Despite Niobe's opinion, the loss of Ferox and Atrox did not grieve Créon much. He had expected the boy to put up a struggle, and he had expected a similar degree of resourcefulness. After all, he knew the boy. He remembered him.

And he knew his weaknesses. His recklessness, his pride, his habit of spending his nights in women's arms, rather than contemplating what was truly important, his consuming passions blinding his judgement… For someone so strong, the boy was easy prey.

He would be trying to get a woman to keep him company currently, no doubt of it. Though it seemed that he had less luck with his favourite occupation recently, he would not give up. Not that one. That one would try until he succeeded.

Watching the arrival of yet another patrol from upstairs, Créon frowned. Himself he scorned the joys of the flesh. Those were lowly human occupations, not truly worthy of someone belonging to a better kind.

A lesson the boy would yet have to learn, but at first it would be best to offer him a toy, simply to exert complete control over him. The singer would be right; she had about the figure the boy would appreciate, and she had a connection to the boy's current background – and she was so very easy to read. Surely the boy would soon start confiding in her, seeking comfort with her, as well as pleasure… and Créon would learn everything. Everything. There was nothing the boy would be able to hide anymore, and he would not even realize it until it was too late.

Créon smiled.

Adhemar was receiving reports and giving out new orders, the light of the braziers casting strong, flickering shadows around the gauges on his face. How good that the boy had not managed to get at Adhemar this afternoon; Adhemar was too useful an underling to lose. And he had always been. A long time ago, the Dragon-tamer had been useful just as well.

And there could something be made of his and the boy's enmity. That petty human girl would be crucial, of course, but with her, everything would be easy. The boy could not be allowed to have her, of course, yet she would be kept close, close enough for him to see her often enough, yet just out of his reach, and always taken away when he thought he had her at last. It would help breaking him, that and any harm befalling the girl.

And Niobe could be employed, of course, yet with care. Niobe had ambitions of her own, especially as far as the boy was concerned. She had always had those. Trusting Niobe might well disrupt all his plans.

His plans. Their time was ripe now. Soon.

The shadows flickered.

What had been lost once could be regained easily another time. And the advantage was that one would not make the same mistakes made before.

The shadows shifted.

It was never too late for victory. What had been begun at the dawn of time could be brought to an end millennia later, and in the end it would not matter. Time meant nothing to the reign of darkness.

The shadows trembled.

From darkness the world had come, and into darkness it would return. For in the end, all circles closed.

The shadows danced.

And what the Herald of Fate had seen and foretold could not be undone.

Oh, how the shadows danced!


	62. IV Slave of Fashion

**IV. Slave of Fashion**

"Bloody hell", Raoul muttered, tugging at his lapels angrily. "Trouble wherever you look! That bloody Phantom, and the bloody chandelier business, and the bloody Lost Ones, and the bloody management, and my bloody parents, and the bloody Phantom all over again!"

"Calm yourself", Christine suggested, stroking his upper arm. "It will be alright. Everything will."

"Like I've never heard _that_ before", Raoul grumbled. Currently, he just wanted to be annoyed – and be calmed down by Christine; as always, he enjoyed her attention very much. "That bloody –"

"Say _bloody_ one more time", Christine interrupted firmly, "and I'll pinch you."

_What?_ She intended to _pinch_ him? Just like that? Now that was… well, what? "Depends on where you pinch me", he thought aloud.

"Wherever you find it slightly unpleasant", Christine suggested with a little giggle, which was taken up by Meg.

Raoul rolled his eyes at her, then squeezed her hand. Those silly young girls… But Christine could pinch him all she liked, and he would still devotedly love her. Today, she had already chased him out of bed early, made him skip half the breakfast, harrowed him out of the house before he had been able to fix his hair properly – it certainly was a horrible mess now – and then she threatened to pinch him, but she was his one and only love, and there were things he would put up with any time, in exchange for having her close.

Having to put up with the Phantom pushed that limit quite hard, though.

Oh, well… The man might not be that bad actually, apart from being a lunatic and a murderer and chasing after his fiancée. Yesterday's performance with the bow had been quite amazing, for example. And the way he had dealt with those gypsies they had fought… a born killer, and with style. Even the toughest old sergeant Raoul had met in the navy was bound to be impressed.

Yet there was something about it troubling Raoul: When the Phantom killed… he seemed to enjoy it. Of course, after all those Lost Ones and gypsies had done to him, he would be burning to have his revenge, burning up with hatred inside, but… not so much. Never so much. All that cruelty, that lust for blood… it was not right. It was just not right. Nobody could harbour so much hatred. Nobody.

How could Christine ever love that man? How could she? For he believed that she did, in a way, and it hurt him to know, even if he told himself that he could not completely possess her, that it would be wrong to desire any such thing. But still… they shared something he would never have. Christine had practically told him so, and although he did not understand what it was, he knew that this was something reserved for those two, but not for him. Not for him.

Why did all that was beautiful have to be tinged with sadness, why did regret find a way into even the purest joy? His and Christine's love was the most marvellous thing he could possibly imagine, brighter than the sun and fairer than the star-strewn sky, but a shadow lay over it, a deep, dark, fathomless shadow. And even when Christine rested in his arms, warm and sheltered, still she would turn her head, magically drawn to gaze out into the cold darkness…

He would always be there, Christine had said. The enemy. There was a brief truce for now, but later on, when this all was over… The enemy would be the enemy again, and he would never stop hunting Christine.

Then Raoul would have to kill him, after all.

But, God, those eyes, those pain-filled eyes, accusing him for the mere thought! And all the grief and sorrow he had seen in them…

Raoul shook his head, trying to shake off the memory of the Phantom's eyes. He had to focus on what lay ahead, and on nothing else.

They entered the Opera House together, Christine leading the way. Trying to keep a watchful eye everywhere at once, Raoul realized that he already saw a threat in every flicker of movement, every tiny shadow. This had to end. God forgive him, but they could not go on like this. Créon had to be killed. He had to be killed! There was nothing else they could do about that man. Let Créon be taken into police custody, and he would manipulate minds to walk out again easily. Chase him away, and he would start all over again in another place, and sooner or later return for the Phantom. And he would not give up, Raoul knew it. Créon would never give up.

And neither would Niobe. Raoul clenched his teeth at the thought of having to kill a woman, but this woman was more dangerous than any other. And this woman had tried to take possession of Christine. She had harmed his fiancée, his beloved.

And it would be the Phantom who killed her, anyway, not him. He would only assist, but take no active part in it. That made it a little bit better – but only a little bit.

They reached Madame Giry's small apartment, on the same stairs as the ballet dormitories, and Christine knocked.

"Is he about?" Meg whispered. She did not have to mention any name; it was obvious who she meant.

Christine nodded. "Just beyond this door."

Already fully dressed, Madame Giry opened the door and beckoned for them to come in. Her small living room suddenly felt rather crowded, with all of them being inside, and Raoul got a slightly guilty feeling, although there actually was nothing to feel guilty about. They were offered seats, he and Christine huddling together on the small fauteuil while Meg and her mother each took a chair.

From what must be the bedroom, the Phantom at last made his appearance, pulling on his shirt as he came. Raoul briefly caught a glimpse of several bruised spots on his body, especially a rather nasty one on the side, now starting to turn yellowish, and he almost winced. He constantly bruised his shins himself, and those small bruises could be unpleasant enough already.

A slight nod was all the Phantom did to acknowledge their arrival, yet immediately his eyes fell on Christine and stayed on her. Raoul found that he did not care, as long as the Phantom remained where he was, right behind Madame Giry. He informed her of his presence by briefly touching her shoulder from behind, and she reacted to it by giving his hand a gentle pat.

Had he been there for the whole night, or had he just arrived in the morning? The way he was busy with tucking in his shirt right now seemed to reveal that he had slept here, at the ballet mistress's apartment. Raoul wondered if there was room enough over in her bedroom. He could only hope so for her. Sharing a room with the Phantom would be the very last thing he wanted to do, and he would never sleep in that man's presence, or else he would probably never wake up again.

Meg beamed up at him, of course, which he answered by a small smile. She had probably missed him, Raoul suspected. As if he were really the right one to warm a young girl's bed! Raoul almost shook his head in irritation.

His attention returned to the conversation. "Luckily, they have made no attempt to get at Erik", Madame Giry was saying, in a tone which somehow seemed to imply that anyone trying to get at her Erik would be very sorry indeed. Heavens above! That one was a grown man, and a rather dangerous one, too! Sometimes, women were near enough impossible to understand.

"Of course", Christine said. "He is still hidden. They can't sense him." And Christine probably could, Raoul assumed. What a punishment, sensing that… _man_ all the time!

"However", Madame Giry continued, "it seems that Créon has revealed himself to the managers and some others, which is good news."

"Good news?" Raoul raised his eyebrows. "Because they are forced to believe us now?"

"Exactly. And besides, it seems that Créon took the blame for all the people killed here recently."

"For…", Meg began, then understanding dawned on her face. "For Buquet and Piangi, too?"

Madame Giry nodded. "Apparently." For some reason, the Phantom grimaced slightly.

"Why?" Raoul thought aloud, frowning. "Why would he do any such thing?" But there was no answer plausible enough for being uttered.

"Because he takes pride in it, fop", the Phantom replied somewhat impatiently. "Because he wants to make them believe he has been in control here for some time."

Raoul scowled. "Who would ever take pride in killing a man? Except someone as morbid as you, perhaps", he added as an afterthought.

"Don't pout because you didn't see the obvious answer, kid", the Phantom gave back coolly.

"Anyway", Madame Giry continued hurriedly with a look of disapproval, "this is very useful. Because eventually the police _will_ get involved, and then we have Créon's own word for Erik's innocence."

_Innocence?_ The mere idea was perverse! When the time came, Raoul would surely testify to the contrary! But he said nothing, not in front of all those women – including his own fiancée, he suspected – who saw in the Phantom nothing but just a big softie, and someone who was merely vastly misunderstood.

Women, really…

Suddenly he realized that the Phantom's eyes were on him, instead of Christine, and that the man was wearing a most peculiar expression. Was that freak by any chance… reading his mind?

_Correct, sissy-boy_, a disembodied voice hissed inside his skull, almost making him flinch. _You are very easy to read, if I may say so._

Raoul shot him the dirtiest look he could achieve. _You ought to shave before you show yourself in public_, he thought fiercely, the only thing occurring to him at the moment.

_Oh, really?_ The Phantom passed a hand over his black-shadowed chin briefly, proving that Raoul was not only imagining things, that this conversation was real. _And that from someone with the most embarrassing hair seen in public for some time…__ Is that the newest fashion or what, pretending you're a girl?_

_Shut up_, Raoul thought at him. _Bloody shut up._

_Your petty little brain is so filled up with fashions, it seems, that there is no room for proper cursing. Someone like you had better stay indoors and spend all day in front of the mirror, instead of only half of it._

_You git,_ Raoul replied.

The Phantom smirked. _You are not really improving._

Beside Raoul, Christine groaned audibly. "For God's sake, you two, give it some rest! I can't stand it!"

Raoul's jaw dropped. How could she have heard that exchange, when they had not spoken a single word? That the Phantom could get into his mind was bad enough, but that Christine was developing abilities of the same eerie kind… God, what was going on here? He felt caught up in a vast conspiracy to tear apart the world as he had seen and known it.

"She's been tampering with _my_ mind, kid", the Phantom said quietly. "Not yours."

Raising his head, Raoul met the Phantom's gaze. Those haunting eyes, cold yet burning… But there was no hatred in them now. They were… calm, in an odd sort of way. Very calm, very serene… as it was said the heart of the storm was. The Phantom would do what had to be done, he had made up his mind, and he was calm about the decision. _No reason to fret, _his eyes seemed to say._ No reason to doubt my way. I've even got the time to care about your petty problems, kid, how's that?_

Raoul swallowed. Yes, indeed. That one had made up his mind. That one would kill, and not care whether he killed ten men, or a hundred. And he could tease Raoul at the same time as he planned human beings' death. A man's life was worth nothing to him. _Is this what you sold your conscience for?_

There was a flicker of… _something _in those strange blue eyes. I _don't think I ever had one_, the disembodied voice whispered in Raoul's mind, and then, very quietly, if that was possible for a voice only heard in his head, _I'm not human enough to have one. I'm nothing like you, or the girls._

There it was again, a glimpse of an endless sorrow, vast as an ocean. It was gone in less than a heartbeat, yet it left Raoul with a feeling of unspoken sadness. _I'm nothing like you._ And then he thought he could feel a little touch of pity, of the same pity which had made Christine stay his hand on that morning at the cemetery – the same pity which had made her lovingly kiss that creature of the night.

God, what shall I do? What shall we all do?

Meg shifted on her chair, drawing Raoul's gaze for a moment, and for a moment it rested on the bodice of her dress stretched over her female forms… Heavens above, what was he doing there? Staring at Meg in a most improper way! And that when he was not only engaged, but should be concerned with a lot of other things as well! Really, he should be ashamed of himself.

Determinedly turning his head away, he looked at Christine instead. So sweet, so pretty… but her expression was too serious, her lips too thin a line to offer him comfort. Lord in Heaven, he had fought so hard for her happiness, and still there was no end to this! Still she was not safe. What else did he have to do? What other horrors awaited the poor girl? He had to protect her, at whatever cost.

And as he saw the Phantom's gaze once again linger on his fiancée, he knew that his rival was thinking just the same.

They would fight. They both would.

They would do it together.


	63. V Look back on all those Times

**V. Look back on all those Times**

To be honest, Madame Giry did not have a good feeling about this all. Quite the contrary, she was getting an increasingly bad feeling.

But the Phantom was strong. He could do what he intended to do. He was strong, and he was hard.

Yet all the same, he sometimes still was little Erik to her.

And there was yet another problem she did not miss spotting: Those looks her daughter kept directing at him… Meg was making calf's eyes at him, just like a silly little teenage girl.

Which she was, to be exact. She was almost seventeen; just the right age to be foolishly taken with a man.

And he certainly knew. He was clever; there was no fooling him. He had certainly noticed Meg's looks. And it certainly made him feel horribly smug to no end.

If he tried anything with her daughter, she would box his ears something _dreadfully_!

Madame Giry eyed him thoughtfully. She could see why Meg apparently fancied him – and why Christine probably secretly did, just as well. He was tall and well built, and even handsome – as long as he wore his mask, that was – and he radiated a most intriguing aura of danger. He might well be considered an attractive man.

Yes, and in case she decided to take a lover, after all… He would be the perfect choice, and he had signalled his readiness clearly enough last night. She could have him, if she only wanted. She could have him spend his nights in her bed, and she was sure he would be very… _entertaining_. Well, this was something to be thought about, certainly, but later on, not now.

There came a knock at the door, and when Meg went to open it, Gaston was first to step over the threshold, just as could have been expected. He was followed by Hulot, who had to be given a gentle nudge, and then Serge entered as the last of the three. But this was not all. The three stagehands were accompanied by three more people, three who Madame Giry knew rather well. Not the first of them, that was, about him she only knew that he belonged to the orchestra and was late for rehearsals regularly, but the other two were of her own charges, both ballet members.

After the polite greeting which had to be expected of him – that he had been a servant at very young an age made politeness come natural to him, it seemed – and after the obviously obligatory bow to "the Lord Phantom" – Madame Giry very nearly rolled her eyes – Gaston went right about to introduce them all. "Those are Leclair, Marie and Xavier. They volunteered to help."

Meg and Marie were already winking at each other merrily, and giggles were soon to be expected, yet of course Marie's eyes were irresistibly drawn by the Phantom, who seemingly did not shift his position at all. She was a slender girl, as they all were at the ballet, with dark hair and eyes in a strong contrast to her delicately pale skin, and she had a pretty face. She was quite lovely… yet sadly, she could not be placed in the front rows, even though she was one of the older girls, because she possessed an uncanny tendency to stumble at the most embarrassing of moments during a choreography.

Xavier greeted his ballet instructor with a polite little bow. He, too, was dark-haired and slender, with curly hair framing his boyish face. Quite the opposite of Marie, he was one of those skilled dancers who did practically nothing wrong, and if he did, he did not forgive himself easily. His only fault was that he enjoyed gossiping and giggling with the girls a bit too much, and that he kept dating up to two a week. It was rather ridiculous. At least he had stayed away from her daughter and Christine until now.

"What do you mean, help?" the Phantom inquired from behind her, his voice as cool and neutral as was to be expected of him.

Gaston beamed. "They can fight for you, my Lord Phantom", he proclaimed proudly. "They're just the first of an army I can build for you."

Heavens, what nonsense! That man had read more adventure stories than was good for him, it seemed. An army! That made him rank right behind that Lászlo with his so-called liege-lord. An army, really!

"Are they any good?" The Phantom sounded sceptical. "If Leclair fights as he plays the violin, this is going to be a rather pathetic expedition."

The man from the orchestra grinned apologetically; obviously it was not the first time that he heard something like that. "Sorry, my Lord", he said, scrubbing a hand through his brown hair cut short, "but I don't enjoy practising overmuch."

"Keeping your violin tuned has nothing to do with that", the Phantom replied coldly. "What you use for an A is practically a G sharp at times. It's really sickening."

Leclair grinned again. "Yes, right. Sorry."

Gaston shifted uneasily. "He will help you, my Lord Phantom", he insisted.

"If you think so", the Phantom muttered, unconvinced.

Raoul frowned as he regarded Marie, who stared back defiantly. "Gaston, have you told them what they are up against?" And he was right, Madame Giry thought, especially the girl certainly had no idea. And neither had Xavier, very probably.

"He has", Marie replied grimly. "And I can kick out those gypsies as well as any man!"

"I certainly don't doubt your abilities", Raoul hastened to assure her, while there came an impatient little sound from the Phantom, still standing right behind Madame Giry. "It's only… we don't want anyone else to get hurt. And we can't make a young lady –"

"How about Meg and Christine, eh?" Marie interrupted.

"They're not coming with us", Raoul said. Perfectly sensible.

"They _are_ coming with us, if they want to", the Phantom said quietly.

_What?_ Did the man want his ears boxed? Allowing her little Meg to go down there, and giving her nothing but stupid ideas? He was _demanding_ to have his ears boxed! There would certainly be some discussion on this point, sooner or later.

And Meg was _beaming_ up at him, the silly girl!

Raoul first frowned, then sighed. "If you say so. But still, we can't let a young lady fight for us, if you can let anyone fight for us at all. I thought this was going to be an operation of stealth." Which was the only sensible thing, anyway. At least the young vicomte had kept his intellect whole.

"Of course it is", the Phantom replied impatiently. "Listen, Gaston, you certainly meant well, but I hardly need an army."

"But _they_ have one, practically", Gaston insisted. "We must protect you, my Lord, so you can protect all of us."

"Can you protect me from Créon? No."

"But we _can_ protect you from the gypsies", said Gaston stubbornly, not heeding the cutting edge in the Phantom's voice.

"I can kick any gypsy's arse", Xavier proclaimed, then added, with a quick glance at Madame Giry, "Sorry."

Madame Giry shot him a stern look. She strongly disapproved of the use of certain expressions.

Unexplainably, Raoul grinned at that. "That's the spirit, alright."

Xavier grinned right back – until Madame Giry shot him another stern look, anyway.

"This is not just about _kicking arses_", the Phantom argued. Now did he really have to use that expression? Madame Giry could practically see his little grimace of disdain as he repeated it, but did he really have to? "This is about much more. Do you mean to face a Lost One like that? You can't deal with a Lost One. Nobody of you can."

Xavier exchanged a look with Leclair, who shrugged. "This may be so, my Lord", the violinist conceded. "I don't even know what a Lost One is, myself. But I certainly know what an arse is. And I certainly know how to kick it."

"That's right", Marie agreed, her chin held high.

"Exactly", Xavier put in eagerly. He seemed eager in most of the things he did. "Let us kick gypsies' arses so you can kick those Lost Ones'."

There was a short pause, in which Xavier received another stern look, his third in a row. Then, at last, the Phantom said, his voice very slightly tinged with amusement, "And so it shall be."

"Perfect!" With his fist, Xavier hit the palm of his other hand.

"But remember", the Phantom continued, "that I am the one responsible for you. Nobody of you is exposing himself to danger unnecessarily. The same goes for you three, Gaston. And for the girls. You will only do what I tell you, and nothing more."

There were nods as well as murmurs of "Yes, my Lord". Why, why on earth, did they have to call him that?

"Agreed", Raoul said, though it seemed slightly grudgingly.

Madame Giry cleared her throat. There were some things not to be left unsaid. "And remember likewise that this is _my_ apartment, and that I don't want to hear certain words spoken in it again."

There were a few murmurs of "sorry", but not quite enough, for her taste.

"Or you'll box somebody's ears?" the Phantom suggested innocently.

"Yes, and you should be glad if they are not yours", she returned sharply. He could tease her all he liked in private – well, maybe not all he liked, but a bit, anyway – but there were certain limits when they were in public.

From the looks some of the newcomers were exchanging, she had just inflicted a serious scratch upon his image. Which served him right, for being horribly smug and playing at lord as well as for using bad language in her apartment. _And_ for lazing around in her bed while she was already up braiding her hair, and for making insolents remarks about it. _And_ for giving Meg silly ideas about adventures. _And_ for trying to fondle her last night; that had been rather naughty of him.

She sighed. Why did he have to be nothing but trouble?

Well, this was not exactly fair. Very often, he had been no trouble at all, especially back in those days when he had hardly left the cellars of his own accord. She had always come for him, and he had waited for her deep down in the cellars, in the darkness, afraid to come up any further, sentencing himself to a life of eternal shadow. Later on, he had started to appear upstairs, until finally he had developed the idea that he could be seen stalking the corridors, and that this was pretty impressive. He was not shy anymore. He had almost given up hiding, it had seemed – though not completely. Never completely. He was too much a creature of darkness to turn his back on the shadows. But he had learned not to fear the light.

And yet again… had he really? Did he not shun the light still?

This all was rather more complicated even than it had seemed to be at first, and it had seemed complicated enough. Oh, Erik… As soon as they were alone again, she would have a word about it all with him – after she had told him to shave, that was, and to finally finish dressing. And not to wear his shirt open too wide; it was improper, especially if done for her daughter's sake.

Shaking her head, she left that train of thought. There were too many sins of his which might come to her mind otherwise.

But there were other things, too. Things he had said and done which proved that he possessed a kind heart, after all. Those moments when she could have just hugged him for being such a darling. All those times he had made her laugh, many years ago, with his child-like mischievousness and innocence.

That mischievousness he had retained for a long time, and it could still shine through even now, yet his earlier innocence had soon been lost along the way. She could not have said when; perhaps it had happened very slowly, very gradually, but soon he had been taken by the darkness, consumed by it.

Was he truly mad? Raoul had claimed he was, that night after the masked ball, and he certainly was right to a certain extent. Driven by his own hatred and malice, the Phantom hardly was her little Erik she held dear in her memory. But all the same, he still was her Erik, the very same who had stolen all the strawberry tarts and flooded the Ladies' room on the first floor, the same who had written her little melodies she could play on the piano and brought her rats in cardboard boxes to amuse her. He still was her Erik, even though he had practically forgotten that name. And once again she decided that she would not turn from him again. Maybe he would return to the light, if only cared about and loved enough. No, she would not give up on him again, never.

As if he had heard her thoughts, she felt how he lightly touched her shoulder, resting his hand there, and she placed her own atop his. For now, she did not care about what all those people crowding her living room might possibly think.

And could he not still be her little jester sometimes? Carlotta's croaking accident, for example… it had been mean towards Carlotta, of course, but that made it no less funny. And the evil-tempered diva had truly deserved it, after all. Heavens above, those croaks! Knowing him as she did, she assumed that it had been in fact himself who had been croaking so horribly, hidden somewhere up in the flies and using one of his ventriloquist tricks, while manipulating Carlotta's mind in one way or the other, though she could not have said how, so the bothersome singer fell silent at precisely the right moment to make the croak sound real. And indeed, it could have fooled even Madame Giry – had she not remembered only too well that little Erik had possessed the ability to belch so hugely that she had always expected the walls around him to tremble. Yes, on that night her little Erik had been back.

Up until the moment when he had murdered Joseph Buquet during the ballet scene, of course. Madame Giry suppressed a sigh. He should not have done that. Making Carlotta croak had been enough by far. But no, he had felt like killing the man, so this was what he had done. He valued a man's life for nothing.

And that he had done it during the ballet scene… She had the nasty suspicion that this bothered her even more than the fact that he had killed at all. After all, she had always strongly disliked Buquet, that lazy drunkard who had tried to sneak into the girls' dormitories far too often. This was not a decent thought, she knew, but the Phantom could really have killed the stagehand during another scene; it would have upset her much less.

With another silent sigh, she gave his hand a little pat. "You could really do with a decent box on the ear", she muttered gently.

He chuckled softly behind her. "Well, if you think so…"

But enough of that. They were not alone. Otherwise, she suddenly felt like snatching a pillow and hitting him over the head with it, then run for it, probably giggling. Heavens, she was really getting childish! They had last played that game many years ago, when he had still been a boy –

Now wait. He might have been a boy, then, but… he had not been supposed to, at that point. Not anymore. After all, he was just two or three years younger than her, or four at the most, but she had been in her mid-twenties, no, in her late twenties even, while he… he had still rubbed his chin experimentally and then complained about no growth of beard at all, and he had snickered like an idiot at the mere mention of a naked woman, and practically laughed his head off at the thought of certain compromising positions. He had still been an adolescent. Odd, definitely. It had occurred to her before, of course, but now…

Now she knew. And it answered everything, from his slow growing up, or at least slowed at the end, as if to give his mind more time to develop all its brilliance, to all those strange and unusual talents he possessed: He might choose to deny it, but _he was not entirely human._

Blood of their blood, indeed. That Adhemar had been right.

Poor boy.

She almost sighed as she realized that she had done it again. Why did she always think of him as a child? Because of the darkness which had come over him, later on? That evening when he had first seemed an adult to her, right after Jules had died, he had also seemed very sinister, even though he had been kind and gentle. And he had never ceased to appear sinister later on, not even in his recent helpless grief. The darkness, the distance in those eyes…

May God have mercy on his twisted, tormented soul. It was not his fault.

Beside her, Meg gave a nervous laugh, which was repeated by several others, and Madame Giry returned to reality. In the meantime, Raoul had exchanged places with Marie; he was now standing at Christine's shoulder while the young woman was sitting beside the girl. A gentleman, the young vicomte. She wished the same could be said of the Phantom, but the Phantom was only polite if he chose to. The three stagehands had closed in around them, Serge just as silent as Hulot, but while Serge's gaze was that of complete attention, Hulot's was unfocused as always, and again a faint smile was lingering around his lips, just as if he was seeing something others didn't. He was even paler than usual, it seemed, but that might just be a trick of the light. Xavier was standing close by Marie's shoulders – maybe he was gong out with her currently, and maybe they would still be doing so in a week's time, but that would be way above average, then – while Leclair kept himself at a little distance, observing the others.

Had she missed anything? She could not possibly have been lost in thought for long, or could she? No, probably not.

"There is no other way", Raoul was saying. "We have no idea when any of them come up, or if they are intending to do so at all. We must go down."

Leclair grimaced. "Well, if you say so… there's no choice, then."

"We should not go unarmed", Gaston put in, and Serge nodded slowly to that.

"How many do we have to expect?" Xavier inquired.

Raoul shifted his stance slightly, obviously uneasy. "Yesterday we encountered patrols of three, and they were not aware that someone had come down there. If they notice us now, because our numbers are far greater… who knows?"

"We should reckon with about thirty of them left alive", the Phantom added from behind Madame Giry, his hand still on her shoulder. It would be a lot more proper if he withdrew it, but for now, she let him. Yet she might pull his ears a bit, later on. "Certainly not more. Probably less, but we should not underestimate their number."

"And there's still a handful of Lost Ones left", Meg reminded him.

"Five, to be exact. But leave them to me."

"Oh, and just to prepare you", Raoul said, "there are a handful of women among them. Not many, but there are."

Marie gave him a frown. "Does that matter in any way?"

Raoul's answering look was one of surprise, surprise that she could not see the obvious. "Why, of course! I don't want to harm a woman."

Yes, every inch the gentleman. Madame Giry gave him a little smile.

"You may not do it", said Marie tartly, "but I certainly can."

"Oh, how splendid." The Phantom's voice practically dripped with sarcasm. "We've got a secret weapon, then."

Marie scowled at him, but said nothing. At least the girl knew when to hold her tongue.

"Very well, then", Raoul said. "I think everybody ought to get ready now, right?" He looked at the Phantom, who probably nodded, because he continued, "Shall we say in an hour's time?"

"In an hour's time, same place", the Phantom ordered quietly.

Everybody acknowledged, and the three stagehands as well as the three they had brought along rose to leave, most looking eager – except Leclair, perhaps, who wore just an expression of indifference, which seemed to be his most usual one. Madame Giry suddenly remembered that he had been the one who had once fallen asleep during a rehearsal, and she was not surprised at all. He also belonged to those who seemed to choose their place in the orchestra pit so that they could see what happened on stage, which was what the musicians weren't supposed to at all. Somehow, she found as she watched the man exiting, that the word "sloth" might describe him rather well.

Easily the most enthusiastic was Xavier. As he left the room, he positively beamed. "Great", he announced, "let's go kick some arse, then… oh, sorry, Madame Giry."

Madame Giry sighed. Another pair of ears that deserved a good healthy box one of these days.


	64. VI Talking in Riddles

**VI. Talking in Riddles**

Currently, life was so exciting that Meg could have squeaked with glee at the mere thought of what was going to happen. She was allowed to accompany Raoul and the Phantom! Down into the cellars! And to fight some wicked gypsies! What an adventure!

And both men were so handsome… She really envied Christine.

Now she was being silly again. Almost falling over herself with excitement at a pair of good-looking men! But maybe they were worth falling over herself, especially the Phantom.

Again dressed in the Phantom's clothes, only that this time it was a black shirt she sported, she beamed at her own reflection in the mirror. Splendid! Those clothes made it all a lot more exciting than it was anyway.

And it actually was the same shirt he had worn yesterday, and it had not been washed yet. Somehow that carried a most indecent feeling which made part of her mind tingle with twisted delight, while the other part was sighing wearily over its counterpart's horrible girlishness.

She practiced a few experimental swipes at an imaginary enemy, then decided to ask for a weapon again. She would be well protected, of course, but with a weapon, maybe even with that marvellous skull-hilted sabre again, she would feel even better.

She wondered what exactly the plan was. Certainly not just killing a few gypsies? However, that would be quite exciting enough already.

Heavens, what was she thinking there? Considering killing people an exciting thing? She was almost shocked at herself, but only almost.

The Phantom's bad influence, no doubt. She grinned. After all, one couldn't say no to a nice bad influence… especially if it had blue eyes and curls at the back of the head.

She wondered if he would ask her out any time soon, and she wondered how she would react. Should she accept?

Could she? And what would her mother have to say to it?

All useless musings, she thought, since the Phantom probably never thought of asking out anyone – except Christine, maybe.

The world was highly unfair.

But maybe it was better for her own good.

Oh, how she hated her own good!

Suppressing a sigh, she joined her mother and the Phantom in her mother's tiny living room. That feeling of closeness between those two was… unsettling. She had never realized how close they really were. Not that she truly knew, but when they were together, it seemed so… natural. Natural? She did not really know how to describe it. And when they both were sitting there in silence, like they were doing now, it was no awkward silence, as it might have been with someone her mother knew less well.

But before she could direct a word at either of them, Christine came slipping in, all in black and in a man's clothes just as well. Adorned as she was, she looked even slimmer and paler, so very fragile suddenly, as if doomed to be shattered by the next gust of wind. Yet still, her smile was radiant, or maybe even more so, when seeing her that way. "Has Raoul returned yet?"

Of course, her first question was about her fiancé. They were so much in love, those two, like a pair of love-doves tenderly prodding each other with their beaks. They always reminded Meg of those gentle birds. Heavens, this was just so romantic! Meg wished to find a husband like Raoul one day.

Or… no, she would not look at the Phantom again now, or he would catch her gawking once more. As if it was _her_ fault that he had nice legs, and that he was displaying them quite openly, in those tight-fitting trousers of his!

Or that he was wearing his shirt, black like the girls', hanging open a little bit too far, for that matter.

_Indecent jerk_, Meg thought, and almost burst into giggles at the mere sound of it.

Surely not something that could be thought of Raoul… or could it?

"Not yet", her mother replied to Christine's question. "But he will be there soon, no doubt of it."

Connecting this reply with what question had just been going through her head, Meg had to stifle a giggle once again.

"With a funny hat, I'm afraid", the Phantom muttered.

"_A funny hat_?" Meg and Christine looked at each other, realized they had spoken at precisely the same time, and giggled. Finally Meg could giggle without arousing suspicion!

The Phantom shrugged, not looking at either of them. "There was that huge feathered thing he wanted to try on yesterday."

The girls exchanged a glance, then giggled anew. Imagining Raoul wearing a gigantic bonnet decorated with feathers was just too funny. "How did it work out, you two together?" Meg asked curiously, once she had more or less gotten over her attack of mirth.

The Phantom shrugged again, obviously not in the mood to say much. Once more, he seemed distant, and if not exactly cold, then certainly cool, cool and reserved, the impression enhanced by the black mask covering his face from his forehead down to his upper lip. How had it really worked out, him and Raoul together? Of course, she had heard Raoul's side of it, and Raoul had told them that the Phantom had almost been friendly, even if in a very gruff way.

And that he had saved his life not only once, but two times.

Good God, he must love Christine very much to protect his rival like that!

"Erik…", Christine began, and both Meg and her mother looked at her in surprise. That she could speak to him as calmly as she was currently doing, after all that had occurred between them… Her friend was stronger than she had expected, Meg thought with pride. "Erik, look at me."

Meg held her breath as the Phantom slowly turned his head to regard his beloved. His expression was calm just as well, so calm that it almost seemed frozen. This was what he had looked like when he had sent her away, after killing Lionel, after that awkward, but – at least seen from a little distance – immensely comical encounter involving the grating in the ceiling and the boat which had gotten away. Yes, this was what he had looked like, one moment laughing with her, then the next cold and frozen. His eyes seemed to hold none of their usual fire, but were nothing but bright blue ice now.

He was restraining himself, she knew. He was building up a wall around himself which he thought was necessary, so he would not harm whom he held dear.

He was doing it for Christine's sake, and no one would ever see the pain it caused him.

As their eyes met, Christine held his gaze. However small and fragile she seemed, she would not bow her head. "I want you two to get along with each other. It's not as difficult as you always pretend. I want you two to be friends."

The Phantom's expression remained as it was, of the same icy calm, yet very briefly, his lips twitched with disdain. Christine was asking the impossible, Meg thought. How could Raoul and the Phantom ever be friends? Of course, she understood Christine's request, but was it not too much to ask?

"Erik, I mean it", Christine insisted. "Please?"

He sighed softly, holding her gaze, and for a fraction of a second Meg thought to see his lips move noiselessly.

Christine's eyes widened, but only very slightly, then they narrowed.

The Phantom frowned in return.

Christine's mouth shifted into a petulant little sulk.

The Phantom's lips formed a cultivated little grin.

And precisely then, Raoul entered. He wore black like the rest of them, from his boots to his gloves, and had his hair bound back in a ponytail with a ribbon. Meg thought it looked rather nice, especially the ponytail. Somehow, it made her want to squeal with delight. Yes, and tug at it. "Good morning again", Raoul said brightly. "Gaston and the others are already waiting outside."

"What took you so long?" the Phantom inquired, his one visible eyebrow raised very slightly.

Raoul shrugged and grinned. "Finding a shirt really my size, I reckon", he grinned. "And I found none really, so I had to take a bit longer, you see. But it was worth going back home for."

The Phantom rolled his eyes at him.

Raoul snickered and stuck out his tongue.

This produced another giggling fit in both Meg and Christine, and the Phantom rolled his eyes again, as did Meg's mother.

"Right, well…" Raoul grinned apologetically. "Shall we be going, then?"

There came a knock at the door, and Gaston peeked in. "Excuse me, my Lord Phantom, but there's a man who says he would like to speak to you. Two men, actually."

The Phantom frowned. "Did he give any name?"

"No, my Lord. But I know him, my Lord, him and the other. They have some strange foreign names, but I can't remember them right now. They helped us to get away from the Lost Ones, my Lord."

Too much calling him Lord, Meg thought; her mother said it only inflated his head unnecessarily. At least he had stopped looking so horribly smug when someone called him so. He was still looking smug now, but at least not horribly so. But maybe Meg was just getting used to it.

The Phantom turned to her mother, who nodded. "Send them in, then", he commanded.

Gaston disappeared, then appeared again, opening the door fully and admitting a pair of fair-haired men, even with what might pass for a hint of a bow. He would make a good lackey, that man. He knew how to do it. And with that open, honest face… Meg guessed that he might be even more to a lord than just a servant. Gaston was a man one could trust, it seemed, and who would not betray his master's confidence.

She wondered if the Phantom was going to accept his services.

But then her attention turned to the two men, both remaining close to the door, which Gaston now shut and stood with his back against it, as if guarding it. The pair of them seemed vaguely familiar; she assumed she had seen them before, though not paid them attention much. From what Gaston had said, they had probably been down there, in that vast-seeming hall with the cherubs at the entrance, when she and Christine and Raoul had saved the Phantom. They were not the same age; one appeared to be around forty, while the other was in his early twenties at the most. The younger kept himself at the shoulder of the older, which somehow suggested that they might be related, even though they were not that strikingly similar in appearance. True, they both had blond hair and blue eyes, but that was where the likeness ended already.

There was one thing she could be certain of, though: Those two were no gypsies.

And the younger man was even pleasant to look at.

"I extend my greetings to you, Lord of these halls." What was that strange accent in the older man's voice? From his looks, he need not have been a foreigner.

The Phantom mustered them with an expression impossible to read, though Meg was quite sure it carried suspicion. Without any more interlude, he came straight to business. "What is it Aeternus wants?"

The younger man looked at the older then, and Meg detected surprise in his gaze, as well as disapproval, but his companion did not answer it, but frowned instead, then made a dismissive gesture to the other, almost not noticeable. The younger man frowned in turn and muttered something to himself quietly, but did not object in any way. "What is it he wants?" the older of the two repeated, and Meg wondered whether this was for some obscure rhetorical reason or just to win time. "He is eager to see another twist of fate, he informs me."

It seemed that the Phantom was not sure what to make of this answer straight away, but, quite contrary to what Meg would have done, he did not inquire after the sense in it directly. "Well said, Lászlo", he commented instead, wryly, "yet you do not tell us for what reason Aeternus has shown interest in these dealings. A reason of his own, I trust?"

The man – Lászlo? How did the Phantom know? – nodded to this. "My liege-lord bids me deliver a message."

"Let us hear it, then." There was the slightest hint of sarcasm in the Phantom's voice.

"He counsels you to bear in mind that what once was burned may yet burn again, and that old wounds can break open even if we do not remember them."

Meg had to admit to herself that she was utterly lost, and both Christine and Marie made the same impression. Raoul was frowning, while Xavier was gaping open-mouthed. He was a nice lad, really, but he had never been exactly bright. If the Phantom was irritated, he did not show it. "Anything more?"

"Yes, my Lord. Créon's greatest strength is also his weakness. And he draws his knowledge of you from memory mostly. Both can be used to advantage."

This time, the Phantom did not simply accept what he heard. Meg wondered why his eyes were ablaze so suddenly, why his teeth were bared. "What does he mean by _memory_?" he hissed. "I have not known Créon before, curse you all!"

Meg felt her mother shift beside her, and she saw how Raoul sought Christine's eyes, but Christine would not face her fiancé. What was it in her eyes? Sadness? Meg was not sure, but she instinctively felt that Christine was the only one apart from the Phantom himself who knew what hidden meaning lay in that one single word.

Lászlo backed away half a step, right into the dishevelled youth behind him, his hands raised in what probably was meant to be a soothing gesture. "I'm nothing but a messenger, my Lord! I merely repeat my liege-lord's words!"

Slowly, very slowly, the Phantom's features shifted back into his previous frozen expression, and his stance seemed a little more relaxed, but about that last observation Meg was not quite certain. He definitely still looked ready to throttle someone, if not break his neck straight away. "Get on with it, then", he growled.

Lászlo's fair-haired young companion was watching the Phantom warily, Meg noticed. Not exactly like one would watch a predator, but still… with a mixture of caution and respect. Or maybe more than respect? She could not say.

The young man realized she was looking at him and flashed her a bright, toothy grin. Meg grinned right back.

"One more thing, my Lord." It seemed that now Lászlo was in a greater hurry to deliver his message and be gone than before. "Créon is out currently, probably for the whole rest of the morning."

The Phantom nodded curtly. "I appreciate the information, but I can tell myself. His presence has lessened here." He caught Christine's slightly confused look and added, "It has become less tangible. I can feel he's away."

Even without his explanation, Meg would have known what he was talking about. After all, he had told her about it, hadn't he? "The threads of darkness", she murmured to herself.

She had spoken very softly, but not softly enough for the Phantom's sharp sense of hearing. He turned to face her, his gaze oddly… calculating. "Clever girl", he commented.

Meg felt herself blush slightly. Was he making fun of her, or had this just been a compliment?

Lászlo swallowed. "My liege-lord advises you to strike _now_", he continued, very softly and huskily suddenly, as if afraid to utter those words. "Swift and hard."

The Phantom nodded grimly. "Precisely what I will do."

Nearby, Raoul shifted his stance uneasily. "What's that man playing at?" he burst out, glaring at the pair of messengers. "Aeternus, I mean. What the bloody hell is he playing at?"

Lászlo held his gaze, but said nothing, while his young companion only scowled at the floor.

The Phantom silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand, and Raoul now directed his expression of anger at him instead. If the situation had not been so serious, Meg might have giggled at those two.

God, she was feeling so giggly somehow she might burst. Bu maybe this was just the excitement of the adventure lying ahead.

"Anything else?" the Phantom demanded.

Lászlo shook his head. "No, my Lord. We ask your leave to retreat."

"Granted." Everybody watched as Gaston opened the door for the two of them, who both bowed and backed out. Meg caught a last glimpse of the younger of them as he, beyond the threshold, turned and shook his hair out of his eyes. It was very slightly curly, she noticed, and quite fit to be tousled. How nice…

When Gaston had closed the door, the Phantom turned to Raoul. "I can't tell you exactly", he answered his previous question, "except that he is serving his own ends. There was no treason in those two servants' minds. Nonetheless, I do not trust Aeternus, and I would advise you all to do the same."

Raoul wrinkled his brow. "What kind of man would betray his master like that?" he mused, and from his expression it was clear that such a betrayal was a vile thing to him.

"A man who desires to take his place?" the Phantom suggested. "Gaston, alert the others. We are going."

"They are already waiting, my Lord Phantom."

They were going! Meg could practically feel her pulse quicken at the mere mention of this. They were going! Another great adventure had just begun. Of course she had been frightened yesterday, when running from those gypsy henchmen, but then she and Christine had been on their own. Now they wouldn't be.

And after all… it had went well yesterday, hadn't it? It had not been that bad.

At the door, the Phantom turned once again and reached toward his belt. "Here, kid. You'll be missing it."

As Raoul accepted his revolver back, they held each other's gaze for a moment. Still both their looks spoke of obvious dislike, but if Meg was not entirely wrong, there was something new now: a strange kind of grudging respect. Christine might be asking for too much, but maybe they might at least manage to get on more or less with each other. Maybe it would even work.

Regarding them both with an appraising look, Meg hoped so.


	65. VII Child of the Wilderness

**VII. Child of the Wilderness**

His bow over his shoulder, the Phantom led the way, flanked by Gaston, who was carrying a torch and was probably close to dying with the honour of it, and Xavier, who was grinning merrily into the gloom. He did not exactly like the idea of so much light, but apart from him, everybody needed it, and besides, he would feel any gypsies' proximity before they ever saw them.

It was true, Créon's presence had much diminished. The threads of darkness were still there, but weaker. Much weaker.

Weak enough for him to sense Niobe clearly now.

The realization had come as a surprise to him, but he would not wonder about it any more now. There would be time enough for him to wonder when Niobe was dead and gone.

Behind him followed Marie, who wanted to stay close to Xavier obviously, and Serge, who wanted to stay close to him in case a gypsy turned up, then Leclair and Hulot – an astonishing pair of sleepwalkers, indeed – and finally his Christine, and Meg, who was proudly carrying another torch, the sweet little thing, and Christine's silly fop boy, bringing up the rear.

That Xavier was another silly fop. Why did he have to be surrounded by silly fops?

And Leclair. He wondered how that fool had ever gotten a place in the orchestra. Maybe he had still practised then.

They were useless, all of them. He had no need for any of them, except use them as a distraction, which they would hardly be up to, probably. But they had been eager to do it. They had not shied away from him.

Still, it had not been a good idea to accept the whole lot. Gaston could grovel as much as he liked, and Xavier could giggle as much as he liked and beam at him, but still they were of no real use to him. And since he had accepted them, he was even responsible for them now.

Curse them. Curse them all. He would be busy enough with Christine and Meg.

And all the same, he was glad to have a handful of followers.

And if he was not too much mistaken, that girl Marie was more than just curious about him. Another one he might try to get into his bed. Unlike with Claire and Meg, he had no interest in her otherwise, but if it didn't work out with one of the Girys, it might work out with that other girl. Hell, it just _had_ to work with one of them!

But he would finish Niobe first. There was no time to think about girls now.

In his head, trumpets sang of the excitement of battle.

Reaching the end of the ramp down which he had once guided his black horse with Christine on its back – so long ago it seemed, and in a happier age – they had now come to the place where he usually kept his boat when he was going up. Well, not always, because there were other ways, but often enough, anyway. Now, it was not there, and the Phantom briefly wondered where it was at the moment. Meg had last used it, hadn't she? Yes, she had. But it was supposed to be here, wasn't it? Had those dirty Lost Ones perhaps –

No, it did not matter now. He would go looking for it later on, when he was done with those accursed Lost Ones for good. Eventually he would, and the sooner the better, because he was rather fond of his boat, but later on. Not now.

As he led the way through the shallow water and then into the dry passage running alongside the flooded corridor, he did not turn around to see if the others were following. He knew they were, even had they not splashed through the water, because he could feel them. Clearest of all was Christine; to him, she shone bright as a beacon, her closeness practically blinding. The others were nothing but small points of light in the gloom, some of them easily recognizable, like Meg and Raoul, others much the same – he hardly knew the others yet. Serge was the clearest among them, probably, a quiet, strong presence and right behind him, whereas the difference between Leclair and Hulot was not that obvious, as was Marie, whose presence had nothing special at all about it. And Gaston and Xavier were only easy to place because they were flanking him – though they were currently forced to fall behind slightly because the passage was a bit too narrow for three grown men to walk shoulder to shoulder.

And there was yet another presence he was aware of, coming closer: Niobe. She was straight ahead, awaiting him as it seemed, though she could not possibly know he was coming. Or could she? He felt that he could not uphold his shield very much longer; it was beginning to tire him. Sooner or later, she would know. Or would she recognize that strange hole he formed in Créon's threads of darkness? That was, if he formed a hole at all. It was what Christine's awareness reported back, an odd sense, like a hole where he should be. Probably it was what Christine alone felt, but he could not be sure.

Hell consume itself, there was so much he did not know!

But once she was close enough, she would feel the others, and Christine would be the first she would recognize, after trying to take over her mind, two nights ago. He bared his teeth at the memory, his anger welling up like a furious, swirling flood, ready to devastate and consume everything. Niobe had harmed his beloved. She had hurt her. That in its own right made her deserve to die ten, no, a hundred times over, let alone how she had humiliated him in front of all those other Lost Ones.

And still, he felt, like a painful knot in his chest, that he was no better than her. Had he ever asked Christine's permission for anything? No, he never had, because all he had ever thought of was himself, and nobody else.

He was such a monster.

How he longed to beat his head against the wall until he was senseless, until the pain would blind him completely and the blood running down his face would calm him down, cool the screaming, agonizing guilt inside him!

His pace quickened as he became aware of something – someone – ahead. No, more than someone. There was just one presence who was stronger than the others. One of the Lost Ones, then, accompanied by a handful of servants. Which one? Not Niobe, that much he knew; that one was closer than Niobe was currently. And not Créon, either, of course. That only left Adhemar, Bertrand, or Aeternus.

There was some chance of Aeternus not being bothersome, as long as he continued playing into his hands, in whatever way he might be doing so. Aeternus remained obscure to him, and he had no idea what to expect of the man once he encountered him. The others, however… he was not sure about Bertrand; the old man with the horribly disfigured face was a complete stranger to him. But Adhemar… he could certainly deal with Adhemar.

He hoped it was Adhemar awaiting him. That one still had something to pay for.

Whoever it was, he was in his lair, he realized, and that infuriated him even more. His lair was his only refuge, the only place where he could hide from the world, and Créon's men had taken even that from him.

But, Satan damn him, he would have it back.

The madly dancing shadows created by Gaston's torch suited his mood very well. He might have tried to be human, up there in the light of day, but down here, in his own eternal night, he was a raging, murdering beast.

_Dies irae, dies illa  
Solvet saeclum in favilla…_

Revenge had never seemed so sweet.

Before they reached the last corner, he stopped, and so did his companions. He could not send them into this unprepared. After all, they were his responsibility now. "Listen", he told them softly, so softly that they huddled together closely to understand him, "there are a handful of enemies just ahead. I cannot give you their numbers with certainty, or otherwise I would reveal myself too early. But you must expect five or six of them, and additionally one of the Lost Ones, who you will leave to me. Advance only when I tell you to; until then, stay close behind me." He considered it for a moment, regarding all those grim and eager young faces, lit by the torches' flickering light. "And take care", he added. "I don't intend to lose any of you."

Leclair laughed softly as he unsheathed a long knife. "You will not be rid of me too soon, my Lord Phantom."

"Of me neither." The grim look in Xavier's eyes did not suit the boy at all.

What would the young fool say, it suddenly occurred to the Phantom, if he knew what he had done with his favourite ballet tights?

"We will defend you, my Lord Phantom", Gaston promised, a zealot's fire burning in his normally so gentle dark eyes. "With our lives, if need be."

"If there are any women around", said Marie, a small, thin dagger appearing in her hand, "I will handle them."

"And don't you dare worry about us!" Meg added, brandishing his own sabre at him.

Serge said nothing, but weighed his wood-axe in his hands meaningfully.

Strange, the Phantom observed, how ready to kill they suddenly were. Many of them had surely accused him as a murderer not that long ago, and now they were quite ready to spill blood to free the Opera Populaire of its intruders. He could sense fear in them, but eagerness as well, and excitement, so much excitement coursing through their veins.

The trumpets in his head were still singing their march of war, so loud that it almost surprised him that he was the only one who could hear them.

_Tuba mirum spargens sonum…_

The time of battle had come.

He met Christine's eyes, large and scared as they seemed, but still full of trust, and of the knowledge that he was here to protect her. Yes, he would do it. He would protect them all. At that moment, when meeting her gaze, he made that silent promise to all of his companions: They would come out of this alive. He would leave none behind.

Taking his strung bow from his shoulder, he nocked an arrow before he advanced anew. As soon as he came into sight of his enemies, he would take one out to make it easier for the others. Or even two, maybe. Then Raoul – curse the silly fop! – would lead the assault on the gypsies, employing his revolver only in the worst case of need not to alarm any others maybe lurking nearby, while he himself would deal with the Lost One awaiting him, hiding in his own lair.

Leaping down into the knee-deep cold water lightly, he swiftly turned around the corner, already taking aim, and loosed the arrow at one of the looming shadows in his again brightly lit lair ahead. The fools! They might at least have lowered the portcullis, that might have bought them a little more time! This way, the first of them was already dead before he truly realized what was going on.

He felt the others close in behind him in a semi-circle as he advanced, already snatching the next arrow from the quiver hooked to his dagger belt. Ahead, the gypsy henchmen huddled together around a tall figure cloaked in black, who now threw back his hood.

Adhemar. The Phantom felt the corners of his mouth twist into a smirk all of their own accord. Among those he had expected here, Adhemar was his victim of choice. The man would live to regret his crude words about Christine! Yet he would not live long…

"What are you waiting for?" Adhemar snarled at his men. The Phantom counted six survivors, and among them Kalo. Today was a lucky day, it seemed. "They're not that many. Kill them."

The men hesitated, exchanging glances among themselves, their swarthy faces clearly showing uncertainty. Some were ducking, as if they thought they could avoid any more arrows that way. As another of them fell, pierced by a feathered shaft, two of the remaining five started scrambling backwards.

"I said kill them, you lousy sons of animals!" Adhemar bellowed, pushing one of the men forward roughly. That one was a tall man actually, and carrying a large, spiky club, but he cringed away from Créon's underling as if in fear of feeling a whip.

At last they came, in a shouting and snarling horde, waving clubs and long knives as they surged forward. The Phantom felt the tremor going through his own men as they saw them come, but they stood their ground, all of them, right under the arch which formed the entrance to his home, under the mighty statues seemingly supporting the ceiling.

So Adhemar was not going to attack himself? The fool! That left the Phantom free for now to indulge in another little personal revenge. Casting down his bow into the water quickly – shame, he would have to exchange the bowstring – he snatched up what he knew to be hidden there, awaiting him in case of need.

Suddenly beside him, Raoul gave a soft growl. The boy knew only too well which weapon he had hidden under the water's deceptive surface; after all, he had fallen victim to it himself not that long ago, when it had been hidden in precisely that place as well.

And then they were there, all five trying to avoid the Phantom and passing on to the outdrawn semi-circle behind him. He almost laughed as the clumsiest of their number tried to amble past him. Such an easy target, good old Kalo! With a lazy flick of his wrist, he let the lasso fly.

Kalo stumbled as the noose settled around his neck, his piggy little eyes widening with dread, and he turned this way and that, as if desperately hoping that would save him from his fate. There was no time to savour the filthy gypsy's fear now, though. "My fondest regards to your uncle when you meet him in Hell", the Phantom growled, then, turning sideways, kicked the struggling man squarely between the shoulder blades while at the same time yanking the rope tight. There was the sharp, cracking sound of Kalo's neck snapping, then his heavy body slumped into the water limply.

Letting go of the length of rope with a feeling of glee, the Phantom glanced at the struggle ensuing around him. Raoul was just withdrawing his sabre from the club-carrying coward's chest, already turning to take on another. The remaining three were all engaged into fierce struggles, Meg keeping one at sabre-point while Xavier and Marie were trying to wrestle him down from behind. Serge was fighting another, with a bleeding gash across his cheek, but still he wielded his axe with ferocity, and Leclair was aiding him. Gaston, Hulot and Christine were busy with the last, an agile little fellow carrying a long knife. For a moment the Phantom was tempted to stab the man from behind to ensure his beloved's safety, but then Raoul joined the group, engaging the man in a deadly duel, and the Phantom turned again to face Adhemar.

The bastard was trying to get away! Casting down the black cloak, Adhemar was trying to steal off towards the side. Swiftly the Phantom sprang after him, drawing his dagger in the course of pursuit, snarling with wrath and hatred as he went. At first it seemed Adhemar was about to run, but then he turned, drawing his own dagger, to face the Phantom. His face was contorted with anger, the scars across the right side of his face furthering that impression. "Ill met once more, Lord Keeper of the Gates", he growled, careful to avoid meeting the Phantom's eyes as he shifted into combat stance smoothly.

"I say well met", the Phantom answered grimly, ignoring what sounded like a most peculiar taunt.

"You will yet serve the Master."

"He will yet have to convince me of that."

Adhemar bared his teeth at him. "You cannot deny your own being a Fateless."

Despite the fury surging through him, the Phantom answered his snarling grimace with nothing but a cold stare. "My fate is none of your concern."

They began circling each other then, their daggers at the ready, and hatred in their eyes. Reaching out towards Adhemar's mind, the Phantom could feel it, a blind, burning hatred that was strong, very strong, but also… old? Old? He did not understand. It was a very present feeling, a feeling connected to a time only a few days past as well as the here and now. Why did it have the feeling of a distant memory to it, then, a memory older than the world?

And what exactly made him think that this memory, if there was any, was older than the world?

It was the shadow lying over his opponent, he realized. Créon's touch, Créon's shadow, Créon's taint was on Adhemar, a sense of an evil born in the dawn of days, so ancient that it had been there before the sun had ever risen for the first morning on earth, and it would still be there when the sun had set for the last time.

He almost snarled when he felt it, and his gloved hand gripped the dagger more tightly. Compared to Créon's, his own darkness was just a gentle shadow cast by an old tree on a warm noon day.

The threads of darkness, weak but still there, vibrated in tune with Adhemar's shadowed aura, whispering of darkness and death.

Death and damnation, an eternity of damnation.

An eternity of darkness for a lifetime of evil.

A dark eternity, and an evil older than the world…

It clung to Adhemar like a foul stench, like a revolting disease, encompassing him completely. The man lived with and in it, and his very breath was that of evil.

Hell be damned, who was Créon? Who was he really? And what had he done? What was this ancient, nameless evil all around him?

"Your memories will yet return to you." Adhemar spoke harshly, through bared teeth. "And when they do, you will weep."

"I have no such memories." They were all mad! Mad! Créon was, and they all were!

"Do you know what comes first?" Backing away up towards the organ, Adhemar still kept his eyes on the Phantom without meeting his gaze, and he did not misstep one single time. "It's the dreams. The nightmares. They will torment you, night after night, endlessly, until you'll only wish you could claw them out of your head. Whenever you'll close your eyes, the images will be there." Was there a slight tremor in his voice? He almost brushed against the organ bench as he backed away further, making the Phantom follow him. "The time will come when you'll dread falling asleep, because you will see it over and over again."

"What?" the Phantom hissed, feeling something in his chest constrict with a sudden, strange fear he had no reason to feel. "What will I see?"

Adhemar's eyes gleamed strangely in the candlelight. "What gave you those scars."

For a moment, the Phantom's breath caught, and when he sucked in a mouthful of air again, it seemed that his throat was on fire. The contagious disease, the breath of evil… _What gave you those scars._ He felt how his fingers were slick with sweat inside his gloves. What had given him those scars? What had given them all those scars? Who were they all, the Lost Ones, the Fateless, and, Satan fry him in Hell, _what_ were they?

As he drove Adhemar back down on the other side of the organ, Claire Giry's voice echoed hollowly in his skull: _A fallen angel, and far from Heaven…_

"I'm no angel", he snarled, launching himself at Adhemar with sudden fury.

Adhemar laughed huskily, mirthlessly, as he sidestepped his attack. "That's what I said, years ago. Over and over again." He blocked another stab the Phantom directed at him, their blades meeting with the cold, sharp clanging of metal. "What will it feel like, Lord Keeper of the Gates, feeling the Ever-Burning Flame devour you? Pain beyond pain, surely? What torment did you feel when earth and sky burned, first of our kind to die?"

"Hold your tongue!" the Phantom snarled, stabbing at him again in blind fury. "Hold your goddamn tongue!"

Dodging his new assault easily, Adhemar smirked. "Yes, God did indeed damn us, if you want to put it like that, though all those legends of Christianity are nothing but foolhardy lies." His scarred features twitched in disdain. "Yet at the bottom of every lie, truth can be found. Is that not so, Lord Keeper of the Gates? Are you not a rebel against the sacred order of the world, and a man too evil for an eternity in Hell?"

Once again the Phantom attacked, slashing at that hateful face, meaning to add a sixth gauge to the five the man already possessed, whatever creature had given him those. This time, Adhemar only parried very barely, and he stumbled slightly from the force of the attack as he did so. "I'm nothing of that kind!" the Phantom snarled. "Do you hear? _Nothing of that kind!_" In his mind, flames leapt up, roaring, consuming flames, engulfing his every thought.

Quite unexpectedly, Adhemar performed a swift counterattack. The Phantom sidestepped just in time, yet Adhemar's blade slit his sleeve open at the left upper arm and skimmed across his skin, leaving a line of burning pain in its wake. "What are you, then?"

Yes, what was he? Satan hang Adhemar by his own entrails, what was he?

Nothing but a creature of the wilderness, he thought. A lonely, twisted creature of the wilderness. Nothing more.

"I'll tell you what you are, then!" Again Adhemar stabbed at him, but this time he was prepared and countered the attack with one of his own, the two blades sliding along each other with an ugly hiss, almost drowned out by the hiss of wrath Adhemar gave. "You're a bastard and a traitor, that's what you are, and all you ever cared about is yourself! While we others were all sworn to the Shadow, you only saw yourself, and you broke a thousand oaths to get at that girl of yours, and for no other reason! And now you're trying to steal Niobe's affection from me!"

"And you're a raving madman!" As Adhemar wanted to launch into another attack, the Phantom turned and kicked him with all the force his burning rage gave him, catching him squarely in the chest and making him stagger. He was fighting dirty, he knew, but this was what he had always done. And Adhemar should not expect him to be fair, especially not after those insane accusations he had thrown at him. They were all mad, all of them!

Best if he finished that man for good, then, and if he did it right now. Without giving Adhemar a chance to resume his stance, he threw his dagger at him, aiming at his heart –

With a motion as swift as a striking serpent, Adhemar's left hand shot through the air and snatched the weapon before it struck him, holding it up into the light. His hand was bleeding, but he ignored the wound he had inflicted upon himself. As the Phantom stood transfixed, unable to believe what he had just seen, slowly, very slowly a smile stole onto Adhemar's features, the smile of a predator knowing that he had his prey at last. "This", Adhemar said, "was a grave mistake, my friend."

Regaining his balance, the Phantom bit his lips. While he was unarmed, Adhemar now held two daggers. He would have to be very careful now, or –

He was being a fool. What did he need his dagger for, except for questions of style? Hooking the right thumb into his dagger belt and cocking his head to one side, he threw his opponent the most unsettling look he managed, with his eyebrows raised expectantly – though Adhemar would not see much of that because of the mask – and his lips twisted into a lopsided little grin. The short moment of surprise was all he needed, the moment when Adhemar stared at him – and their eyes met at last. When he took the other's mind over, Adhemar was too surprised to put up a struggle, and before his enemy had regained his composure, the Phantom was already delving deep into it, down to where the source of life pulsed in its immortal rhythm.

So Créon could kill just with his thoughts, now could he? If Créon could, the Phantom thought grimly, then he could as well. And Créon should see that he could. They all should.

Adhemar was struggling by now, but the Phantom was so deep down in his mind already that it was completely useless. He did not even trouble himself with smothering Adhemar's attempts to free himself. Reaching out to that pulsing stream of life, he imagined clenching his fist around it, blocking its flow…

Adhemar staggered, dropping both daggers with a metallic clatter as he made a choking noise deep in his throat. His features seemed even more distorted by the claw marks now than before, somehow.

Bending the thick, vibrating cord, the Phantom set his mind on tying it into a knot, yanking it tight…

With what was nothing but a gentle sigh, Adhemar slumped down to the floor, lying face-down on the carpet motionless.

So much for that one. The Phantom bent to pick up both daggers, wiping Adhemar's clean of his own blood on the fallen man's jacket. Re-sheathing his own, he gave his new trophy a critical scan, passing a thumb over its edge, then over the entwining pair of winged serpents worked into the cross-guard, their maws open in a hiss, as it seemed, baring needle-sharp teeth –

Just in his moment of triumph, Raoul came up beside him, breathless and splashed with water, his hair in such disarray that the Phantom almost grinned. "It's Hulot", he muttered, a strange look of urgency in his eyes, of hope as well as of despair. "We need your help."

Only now the Phantom realized what he must have been feeling earlier on already, only he had been too busy with Adhemar to notice: that Christine was upset over something. Very upset.

Turning on his heel swiftly, he hurried over to where the others – his companions, his responsibility – were huddling together around a limp shape, held half upright by Serge and Gaston, hardly noticing the water he was wading through. Hulot was pale as death, a thin trickle of blood running down his chin from one corner of his mouth in sharp contrast to the sallow colour of his skin. His eyes were half closed, but his eyelids fluttered, and his breath came ragged and strained, making his blood-stained chest rise and fall irregularly. Meg was kneeling beside him, clutching his limp hand, but the Phantom doubted Hulot still noticed she was. As she raised her head, he saw tears glistening in her eyes.

"Can you help him, my Lord?" Gaston's eyes had just the same moist glitter as Meg's, and his voice was thin and reedy, on the point of breaking.

Bending over Hulot's limp form, the Phantom sought for any remainder of a conscious awareness. There were hardly any; there only was pain, great pain. As he went further down, he could feel just what he had dreaded: floods of liquid light streaming out of him, his mind growing dimmer with every passing moment.

There was nothing he could do for him, the Phantom realized. Nothing at all. This man was dying, and he could not save him. He had come too late.

If he had come earlier, would he have still lived, then? Could he have saved Hulot at all?

Was there any way at all to save a dying man? He doubted there was.

Still, he had not been able to do what he had promised to do. He had failed. When he had promised those others his protection, renewing his vow only mere minutes before what had happened, he had not been able to.

It could have been Christine, bleeding in someone else's arms.

He almost shivered at the mere idea. Had it been Christine, he knew he could not have lived with himself, not ever again.

All the same, he had broken a promise given only a short time earlier, and it was of no importance whether he had spoken it aloud or not. What mattered was his failure.

A failure meaning death for someone else.

He cleared his throat, a simple thing which suddenly seemed strangely difficult. "Get him out of the water", he commanded huskily, motioning towards the shore with Adhemar's dagger he was still holding. The raspy sound of his own voice filled him with new anger, and he did not even know if it was directed at the gypsies and Adhemar or at himself.

The gypsies. They would have to remove the dead bodies from the water before they started decomposing, it briefly occurred to him, but this was not what was important now, merely a passing thought.

As careful as possible, Gaston, Serge and Leclair transported Hulot towards the shore, though it still looked like a mixture of carrying and dragging to the Phantom. They put him down beside the stair leading up to the bedroom, all huddling around him. This time, it was Marie who took up one of his hands, while Gaston took the other. "You'll be alright", Marie murmured to him endlessly. "You'll be alright…"

Hell devour him, was there nothing he could do? Nothing at all? His own helplessness at the state of Hulot's rapidly darkening mind filled him with helpless rage. That man was his responsibility, to Hell with it all! He could not just die on him! He could not! Knowing it was useless, he still tried to stop the flood, to build up a dam to keep in the light. But it flowed on ceaselessly, whatever he did.

Hulot gave a ragged, throaty sigh. He did not even have the strength to moan.

This was a fight he could not win. In the end, the victory belonged to Death alone.

"Erik!" Christine suddenly cried, her fingers digging into his upper arm with such force that he almost yelped with pain. Following her gaze, he saw what she was staring at so intently, with her beautiful dark eyes widened in terror: Adhemar was stirring. He was moving.

He was getting to his feet again, slowly, but more or less steadily.

Another aspect in which he had failed, the Phantom thought bitterly, reflexively pulling Christine's slender, trembling form towards him, never to let her go, never to let her die. "Don't be afraid", he muttered into her hair, feeling as foolish as he had rarely felt before. Adhemar should be dead, curse him! Dead!

As dead as Hulot soon would be. The Phantom bit his lower lip painfully, yet hardly noticed it. All he saw was Adhemar, and Christine, trembling in his arms.

Slowly, very slowly, Adhemar turned to face them all – and then the Phantom thought he shuddered too, though only Christine could notice it, because she could feel it. Those claw-marred features carried no expression at all, and those bright eyes, moments before so hateful, so blazing with wrath, were now… empty. There was no other word to describe it. They were a corpse's eyes, sightless, expressionless, like glass marbles fitted into a doll's head. Their unseeing, empty gaze seemingly travelled over the assembled, remained on them for a moment which seemed eternity –

"My God", Leclair gasped, covering his eyes with his bloodied hands.

And then he turned again, and slowly walked away, aimlessly, without a goal.

Indeed Adhemar was not dead. He was worse than dead.

Sobbing, Christine hid her face at the Phantom's shoulder. "Raoul…", she whimpered, shivering worse than ever.

Despite the circumstances, the Phantom still felt a small, but sharp twinge of pain at that. Pulling her closer towards him, he awkwardly held her in his embrace; he was still clutching the dagger in one hand, his grip on the hilt unnaturally tight. It took him some effort to will himself to loosen his own fingers.

Hesitantly, Raoul came up towards him, his bright, innocent eyes wide, though fixed on Christine, not on who had once been Adhemar. "Go", the Phantom told him roughly, nodding in the man's direction. "Keep an eye on him. He might still be dangerous." Then his gaze fell on Xavier, who was standing next, looking down at Hulot's fallen shape with his teeth chattering audibly. "You too."

Raoul's eyes were still wide with terror at what he was witnessing, but he pressed his lips together and nodded, pulling the unwilling Xavier along by his sleeve, towards the Phantom's worst victim ever. Despite their enmity, the Phantom almost pitied the boy.

Hulot. He was forgetting Hulot. Pulling Christine with him and keeping an arm around her slim shoulders, he knelt down beside the wounded man, and Meg, crying softly to herself, made room for him. Dropping the dagger onto the ground at last, he wrapped his other arm around her waist, and she gratefully rested her head on his shoulder.

There was still light in Hulot's mind, but there was not much left, and it was still fading rapidly. And pain, there was so much pain…

This was all he could do, the Phantom realized. He could take the pain from him. Concentrating on it, he imagined severing its connection to Hulot, taking it upon himself instead…

Its sudden intensity took his breath away, paralyzing him with its tormenting force. Clutching both girls to him, he squared his shoulders against it, clenched his teeth, fought it with all his defiance, but it blinded him, robbed him of his senses. _Let go!_, he thought to hear a voice cry in his head, _Let it go!_ But at the same time, there was another, a stronger, more bitter one. _You deserve to feel it. You deserve to suffer. You deserve it ten times over._

He had failed. He deserved the pain.

The world was spinning around him, growing darker. Very barely he was still aware that he was in Hulot's mind, that he was feeling what the wounded man was feeling, but it filled his entire awareness now. The light was pouring out of the world around him, streaming out and dissolving into nothingness.

Or did it truly dissolve? He did not know.

Come back! Damn you, come back!

He felt he could not remain upright any longer; the pain was throwing him down, dragging him down towards oblivion. Struggling, he withdrew from Hulot's mind, but only far enough to still know who he really was, and what he was doing, though about the latter he was not sure anymore. Something was sucking at him, he realized, pulling at him, trying to carry him out into the darkness…

Death. Death was reaching out for him.

All the light that remained now was a tiny spark, like a lone star in an empty sky, twinkling dauntingly, far, far away, beyond the reach of mortal men. It grew dimmer as it neared the brink of outer night, but somehow it grew no less radiant. Then it twinkled one last time before it went out, casting the world into blackness as it passed beyond its borders, away into… the light? The light? It was a fire, bright beyond enduring, an endless ocean of bright, living flame –

Someone was shaking him, he realized, shaking him forcefully, and at once he heard Christine's voice, her beloved voice, dim and distant, but he could understand it. She was calling him, again and again.

And he was going back, returning to her, to his own body, the light of the immortal fire fading before his inner eye. It was like swimming up towards the surface of a deep, dark lake, like waking from the deepest slumber, from the darkest dream.

"Don't go, Erik. Don't go."

He opened his eyes, and there was the light of candles, and Christine and Meg were both holding him, his head resting on Christine's shoulder, while Meg was shaking him as if to wake him. As she saw his eyes flutter open, she stopped, but he still felt her tight grip on his arm.

Christine was there. Earth had him again.

And at once he realized that the right half of his face seemed to be on fire. It was nothing compared to the torment he had experienced earlier, but still it was a sensation of burning pain.

"I thought you had gone with him", Christine whispered. "I thought I had lost you."

Yes, she must have felt it. She must have felt it all, the darkness, the pain. "I'm so sorry", he murmured.

Meg gently stroked his hair. "Hulot…", she began.

"He's dead." Now he had seen the fire, whatever it had meant, the thought was somehow easier to bear.

Gaston was sobbing to himself, cradling his friend's body in his arms, ignoring Marie's hand on his shoulder. In his grief, he probably did not even notice it.

"Where did he go?" Serge whispered, almost too softly to be heard.

The light beyond the darkness. The fire beyond the sky. He had watched men die before, but never had he seen that greatest of mysteries. He had watched a dying star pass from the sky to Heaven.

Could he have died as well, he wondered, had Christine not called him back? And Meg. Meg had helped her. But it had been Christine who had felt him passing away, and it had been Christine who had ultimately saved him.

His angel. His own Angel of Music.

The pain was still there, gnawing mercilessly at the scarred side of his face.

What was it Adhemar had said? Unbidden, his enemy's words resounded in his head. _What will it feel like, Lord Keeper of the Gates, feeling the Ever-Burning Flame devour you? What torment did you feel when earth and sky burned, first of our kind to die?_

I'm not what you deem me to be, he thought weakly. I'm no angel. I'm just a creature from the wilderness, a lone predator, nothing more.

At this moment, he felt like crying, but his eyes remained dry, so dry that they burned. Burying his face at Christine's shoulder, with Meg pulled towards him closely, he waited for the tears to come, but there were no tears. Not anymore.


	66. VIII Turn around and face your Fate

**VIII. Turn around and face your Fate**

The voice cut through the silence like a razorblade. "So we meet again at last, pretty Erik. Such a pity you are currently hiding so much of that lovely face. But then again, black suits you."

The Phantom froze. Had he truly not noticed that Niobe was approaching? He should have felt her. He should have realized she was coming. The fact that he had not was a mistake he would not forgive himself later on.

Especially if that mistake was going to cost him another life of one of his men.

Loosening the girls' grip on him, he rose to his feet. All he wanted was remain where he had been, kneeling there with his face half buried in Christine's hair, inhaling her scent with every breath, while Meg was soothingly caressing his back. But there was no time for that now. Not with Niobe there.

Did it really have to be now? After his encounter with Adhemar and then his experience with Hulot, he felt exhausted, and all he truly wished for was a moment of rest. Was he really fit to face Niobe in his current state? And, he thought with some concern, were the others?

Well, if he wasn't, he would make her regret it. He would make her suffer for it!

This was so illogical that he almost laughed out loud with bitterness. If he wasn't fit to face her now, there might be no later on, perhaps.

Niobe was standing there at the side entrance to his lair, just standing there and smiling, while Raoul and Xavier, who had followed Adhemar, backed away from her. Her long black hair flowed around her shoulders like a natural cloak, and once again her clothing seemed to reveal more than one would expect it to. Only this time she was in a man's clothes, in shirt and trousers just like the three young women who had accompanied the Phantom. Yet he suspected that those had been made specially for her, not only because of the gold embroidery on the black fabric which suspiciously looked like silk, even at that distance, but mainly from the way they hugged her figure. Yes, they probably were hers, because when he looked at Meg, for instance, it was rather obvious that those clothes were not her own. The shirt, a perfect, if rather tight fit on himself, was clearly too wide in the shoulders, yet too tight in the chest, and the sleeves were just too long, as were the trousers. And he wondered how she managed to walk in boots several sizes too large for her. At least Christine had put on boots belonging to Meg's late father, who had possessed rather smaller feet, but Meg had insisted on wearing the Phantom's boots, even though she practically fell out of them probably. Of course, Niobe did not have that problem. Those knee-high boots of what seemed to be soft leather certainly had been made for her as well.

Meg muttered a curse which would have made her mother box her ears quite fiercely, unsheathing the Phantom's sabre once more as she stood. For a moment he considered taking it from her, since it would have been useful against Adhemar already, but then he left it to her. If he could not finish Niobe with his mental powers, he could not finish her at all.

But no. There was a different way. They had discussed it, and it would be easier, yet it brought different risks with it.

And for now, the decision was out of his hands. It was someone else who would have to decide, someone he did not exactly like to leave important decisions to. But who took the risk upon himself was to have the choice. It was only fair.

Christine had gotten to her feet, too, clutching one of the Phantom's daggers as well as that he had taken from a gypsy the day before. Hell be damned, she was so beautiful, all in black and with her soft dark curls in disarray, her features grim, and carrying those weapons, her head held high in defiance, just like an Amazon queen. Curse his non-existent soul, but he could have looked at her forever.

Yet what was happening before him demanded his attention. By now, Adhemar had reached Niobe on his aimless wanderings, and she had obviously noticed that there was something seriously wrong with him, for she suddenly stepped forward and took his chin in her hand, regarding him closely, with a strange kind of morbid fascination. Himself drawn by darkness and death, the Phantom still felt a passing wave of sickness at her expression. Adhemar let it happen; he did not have the will to do anything anymore. Then Niobe's expression changed to a dark frown, her elegant eyebrows sharp lines leading down to the base of her nose – and then Adhemar crumpled in a heap before her. Regarding who had once been her companion for a moment, she then stepped over the fallen body without another glance at him, as if nothing had happened.

At the Phantom's side, Christine winced. She, too, knew that Adhemar was truly dead now.

And to think he had been Niobe's lover once…

By now Xavier had reached them, and he bent to pick up the dagger the Phantom had left lying beside Hulot's motionless form, the one Adhemar had carried. "What do we do?" he muttered anxiously, his boyish face filled with doubt and worry.

Just as if he had heard the question, Raoul, who was a little ahead still, turned and sought the Phantom's gaze, a question in his eyes. The Phantom nodded in reply, though with doubts in his heart, especially after he had witnessed how Niobe had just dealt with Adhemar as she had realized he had become useless. But the boy had insisted earlier on, and it was the best plan they had, if they had any at all. A dangerous gambit, but there was only one other option, and the Phantom did not feel fit for it now. Not at the moment.

Was he truly worrying about the young fool? With some irritation, the Phantom found that he was. Why did he feel responsible for the vicomte as well? That sad joke of a little ape did not belong to the Opera Populaire, not in the way the others did. True, his loss would grieve Christine greatly, but the Phantom would be rid of him, then, and he would not even have gotten rid of him himself. He would not be the one to blame. Yet still…

It was just that he was too proud to lose anyone to Niobe. He was too proud to accept her involuntary assistance in the affairs of his heart, that was all.

But all the same…

No, no more but. The boy would play his part, and himself he would do what he had to, and that was all there was to think about.

And after all, it had been the boy's choice, and the boy had made it. With every choice, a man had to be ready to face the consequences.

At a lazy saunter, Niobe entered the lair at last. "What you have learned since we last met honours you, my lovely boy. But it's time to play now, don't you agree?" The smile she wore was a twisted one which did not reach her eyes. "I assume those are your followers. A nice lot of servants, judging from the fact that you are hated and feared here. But you are perfectly right, sweetheart; servants who fear you are the best servants."

The Phantom met her gaze across the distance. "They did not come for fear," he said quietly.

Niobe's laughter was bright and cold, like a spring high up in the mountains. "Why else, then? Because they love you? Yes, once your servants loved you, a long time ago. But times have changed since then. Who would ever love you anymore, Erik? What woman would now let you play your favourite little game?" Mustering his stage model on the table, she halted briefly, then continued, her gaze already flickering to Raoul once or twice as the boy stood facing her beside the few steps up to the organ. "Nobody will, my little Don Juan. I have seen you on that night at the Opera. Nice try, I might say. But did you truly think you would succeed?" Her fathomless dark eyes wandered over to Christine, and her smile broadened, cold and mocking. "Though I assume having her stand at a mere two feet from you can be seen as a kind of success."

"You hold your tongue about her," the Phantom snarled. _And don't you even think of touching her_, he wanted to add, yet he bit it back. He did not want to give her ideas.

Again Niobe laughed, but this time she was already eyeing Raoul up and down. "The offer still stands, pretty Erik: You surrender to me and give yourself to me completely, and in return I will keep Créon from you." She gave the boy a frown before she added, "That's all you want, isn't it?"

"There are more important things than having a woman in my bed," the Phantom replied coldly. "And I do not need you to protect me from Créon."

"Hear, hear! Growing bold, are we? The last time we met, you were not quite so brave." Again Niobe's smile was mocking, and the Phantom wished he could just jump at her and knock it cleanly off her face. "But you are a defiant lad, and this is the way I like them. Oh, and by the way: We are talking about _my_ bed here, my dove, not yours."

"But _I_ would like to accept that offer." Raoul's clear voice rang out through the cavity, echoing faintly off the rock walls. He was standing bolt upright, and still carrying his unsheathed sabre, one hand resting on the hilt nonchalantly as if it were a walking stick. Though reluctantly, the Phantom had to admit to himself that the silly boy was doing well.

Beside him, Christine winced, and the Phantom felt the sudden hurt clearly at the back of his mind. Of course, the girl was not prepared for this. He reached out towards her soothingly, briefly caressing her awareness. _Don't worry. It's alright._

She turned her head to look at him, her lovely dark eyes wide, and her message arrived in his head as easily as if she had spoken it aloud. _Is this part of a plan?_

_You will see._ Reaching out physically this time, he meant to stroke her arm, but she pulled away, her eyes fixed on her foolish young fiancé.

He suppressed a sigh. How could one be so obsessive about that ridiculous little fop?

Niobe was mustering Raoul like one might eye a horse he was going to buy. "Would you, now? Well, my sweet… you would certainly make a nice plaything, and you have lovely hair to stroke, though you are not quite my taste." She slowly walked around him, eyeing him from every direction, and Raoul kept still, though he slightly shuffled his feet. _Lovely hair_? What an odd taste! "Erik, now," Niobe continued, starting her second circuit, "Erik is more to my liking. Darker, more virile, and with a most enjoyable air of defiance. But you can still develop, of course." Probably indignant, Raoul tried to draw himself up even more, but jumped in a most undignified way when Niobe slapped his backside. "Créon wants you dead, I might add, so owning you might become thoroughly enjoyable."

Christine muttered an insult Madame Giry would surely not have appreciated, though she would probably have agreed whole-heartedly.

Watching Niobe warily, the Phantom still could not quite suppress a grin. Yes, he definitely felt more virile than the boy.

Was she going for the bait? Would she swallow it?

Touching Christine's shoulder, he gestured to her to remain where she was, then approached Niobe carefully. When the time to strike came, he would need to be close enough. His wet boots made odd little squeaking noises, he noted with some annoyance, though they could be more or less silenced by only walking over the carpets.

Meg was coming after him, he realized. Without turning, he made a sharp gesture to her to remain behind, yet she refused to obey. Curse the foolhardy little girl! He had plainly told them to obey his every command, had he not? Who did she think she was? Claire Giry's daughter, yes, and one of very few women who had had the honour of kissing him, as well as that of sleeping in the same bed with him, but that did not entitle her to anything, damn her!

Raising her head from her inspection of Raoul, Niobe spared a glance for the Phantom, and their eyes met. When the Phantom saw swirling mists this time, he knew what it meant, and he knew that Niobe was seeing the same when looking into his eyes. He was growing exhausted from upholding the shield on himself for so long, and he feared his control might slip any moment now, but until he was finished here, he would have to keep it up. There was no other choice.

And he would, he thought grimly. He would not fail once more today.

"I'm not that easy to kill," Raoul said, drawing Niobe's attention to him once again.

She laughed, and this time she even seemed amused. "So you think, duckling. But you forget that you're merely human. However, I'm going to keep you nonetheless."

Christine growled under her breath. Already several steps before her, the Phantom was tried hard not to turn around and ask her to repeat the noise; it had been such a sweet little sound. Instead, he allowed his fingers to clench around the hilt of his sheathed dagger. Once he saw his chance, he had to be quick. Much depended on how fast he reacted; he could not be distracted now.

But he could always ponder sweet little Christine noises when he was through with Niobe. There was a rather delightful squeak, too, and the way she giggled, and…

No, this was not the time. Not as long as Niobe still breathed.

He could feel the others' unease behind him, mingled with other feelings – mainly grief for unfortunate Hulot – but he ignored them for now. As long as he was between them and Niobe, there was nothing they had to fear. At least he hoped so.

It was Meg who bothered him. The foolish girl would continue running after him even if he put her in chains. As he slowly approached Niobe a little further now, she came with him as well.

He would need to have a stern word with her later on. Curse her, she could not just endanger herself for his sake! If she was hurt, how could he ever live with himself?

Niobe put one hand beneath Raoul's chin, making the boy look at her. The Phantom held his breath. "How about a little kiss, my sweet?" she asked teasingly.

Raoul clearly hesitated, and Niobe watched him with her eyebrows raised expectantly. The idiot! As if there was any difficulty in kissing a woman! Well, at least kissing Meg had not been difficult. Claire might have been trickier. But Niobe should really present no problem, Hell devour the boy! He expected him to turn around and ask Christine for permission any moment now.

Just do it, damn you! Do it!

Hell, if Raoul ruined this all, he was going to kill him!

"Don't you dare?" Niobe mocked him. "Let's see what's going on in your mind then, shall –" But she got no further, because Raoul had leaned down to kiss her at last, thus silencing her. Finally! The Phantom wrinkled his nose at him. That annoying little snotrag had almost not dared to.

Niobe snaked one of her arms around Raoul's waist, while the other went around his shoulders, her hand on the back of his head, tangling her fingers in his hair, so that he could not withdraw too easily. She had done just the same with him, the Phantom remembered, only that she had used that mind trick of hers on him as well, that trick which had entranced him, rendering him defenceless.

The trick he had used on Christine himself.

Christine. He could feel her anger in his mind, her jealousy and anger, especially as Niobe's other hand wandered down to Raoul's backside and applied an experimental pinch. The boy squirmed, but he did not try to withdraw.

A good bait, indeed.

The only question remaining was how to determine when Niobe would enter the little fop's mind. If he did the same with Raoul, he would know, but she would know at the same time, and there probably was a way of accessing him through the boy, though he was not quite sure. Trying to enter Niobe's mind was out of the question, of course. So the only thing he could do was wait for Raoul's reaction. He had hurriedly given the boy a few instructions as for how to recognize another's presence in his head, but he was not really sure if the boy could do it and give him a hint. Yet what he certainly would see was when Raoul started to show signs of that trance-like state Niobe would surely send him into. He knew those well enough from his own experiences with Christine, after all.

At this thought, he felt a gentle twinge of guilt.

Reaching out once again to soothingly caress Christine's awareness, he slowly, very carefully drew his dagger, trying to keep the hissing sound of metal sliding over metal as low as possible. Soon it would be time for a blade once again.

The truth was, he admitted to himself, he did not dare to engage Niobe in a struggle of mind against mind. True, he had removed her from Christine's head once before, but they had not been face to face then, and what had taken Christine at that time had been nothing but some odd kind of tendril left over lurking at the defences of his own mind, some kind of… residue. But if he fought her face to face… At their last confrontation, she had been the stronger, and he nothing but a helpless victim, a toy to do with as she pleased. The memory of the shame she had caused him made him clutch the dagger until his knuckles whitened almost painfully.

The truth was, he was afraid. Yes, he was. Not frightened of her, not of Niobe herself. It was failure he truly feared.

No, he would not fail. He could not, he must not fail! Not with Christine there, and with Meg. Not when foolish young Raoul was offering himself up as a bait.

Oh, to Hell with him, what did the boy matter? Why should he care? It was the girls he meant to watch over. When he killed Niobe, he would be defending _them_.

And Gaston and Serge, maybe, and those other three who had followed him willingly, Leclair and Xavier and Marie.

Well, that probably included the boy, too, then.

Curse the boy.

With narrowed eyes, he watched as Niobe's hands caressed Raoul's stiff body. The boy seemed tense, clearly uncomfortable; it was obvious that he did not enjoy her ministrations – or that he felt he enjoyed them too much, perhaps. The Phantom remembered that it had been the same with him, that part of him had wanted to refuse her, while the other part wanted nothing but being touched by her.

That Raoul would take that shame upon himself just to give the Phantom the opportunity he needed to strike… What made the boy do it, his devotion to Christine? Surely there was no other reason.

His opportunity. It would soon come. Niobe had broken the kiss, only to let her lips wander down the side of the boy's jaw and to his neck, biting and suckling his skin. Christine was disgusted, he felt, disgusted with Niobe's outrageousness, with her shameless desire for dominance, for exerting control over a man by possessing his body before she took his mind. And he found he felt just the same. He could have done the same with Christine, the first time she had been down here with him already, when she was enchanted by the spell of his voice and entranced by the power of his eyes. He could have made her his own there and then. At those moments when they had been so close to each other that their lips had almost met, and when Christine's eyelids had fluttered closed unconsciously in expectation of the contact, he had been tempted, and tempted very much indeed. But he had not kissed her. He had held her to him and caressed her, but not kissed her. Because there were choices she had to make on her own. However possessive he had been towards her, he had not forced himself upon her in the end. She had feared he would, after she had taken his mask away for the second time, where everyone could see, but he would never have done it. Not even in his wrath and humiliation and pain. He would never have done with the one he so fiercely desired what Niobe would do to any man without a second thought.

Raoul's breath came in ragged gasps by now, and he stood limply, melting into her embrace. Even as the Phantom wondered whether the time to act had come, she cupped his chin, raking the other hand through his sandy-coloured hair, and made him meet her eyes.

At last. The call of the trumpets in the Phantom's head came to a rousing climax as he approached her, swiftly yet silently, the dagger clutched firmly in his hand.

He might have used the lasso, it occurred to him. Or his sabre, perhaps. Or maybe even the boy's revolver. A noose around her neck would have been the safest method surely.

But this time, he realized as the thin red veils of the direst wrath began to cloud his sight, he wanted to draw blood. And not only that. He wanted to spill it, to savour the sensation of the warm liquid running over his hand. But unlike how Lionel had met his end, this one would be an entirely conscious kill. And he meant to enjoy it.

And this time, Niobe would be the defenceless victim. For how could she manipulating two minds at once?

A shriek from Meg was all the warning he had. Spinning around automatically, he just had time enough to bring up his dagger to block the stab directed at him.

And then the cold hand of dread gripped his heart, for he realized just how much their clever plan had been doomed to go wrong from the very beginning. The bait, the distraction was of no use at all. Because the plan was based on the wrong assumption.

Because Niobe _could_ control two minds at once, after all.

Christine's features were contorted into a snarl painful for him to behold as she advanced on him again, both daggers raised, ready to charge again.

Very dimly he was aware of voices calling frantically, of movement behind Christine, but all he could see was her, and all he could feel was his own heart bleeding. Oh, Christine, Christine! Niobe knew just how to hurt him most. For what did all the pain and humiliation she could give him matter in comparison to harming Christine?

And then Serge was there, gripping Christine's slender form from behind and pinning her arms to her body. Christine struggled, but Serge was a strong man. He did not let her go, even though she repeatedly kicked him in the shins with her heels. He held her, and he did not turn her loose again.

There was only one thing he could do now to free her without causing her pain, the Phantom realized. And he would do it, even if it were to be the last thing he did! "Don't hurt her," he instructed Serge, his voice husky, raspy, before he turned to fight.

"Are you afraid, pretty Erik?" Niobe crooned. Her hands were both tangled in Raoul's hair, and the boy's head rested on her shoulder peacefully.

And from behind him, Christine's voice added, "What are you afraid of?"

Niobe smiled.

"Calm down, Mademoiselle," came Serge's voice from behind him. "Please. Put those knives away." Didn't the man see how useless this was? Christine would not listen now. To nobody.

"Why, you seem to have forgotten many things, my lovely boy," Niobe continued, toying with Raoul's hair. "Did you really think you could distract me, sending me this sweet little thing? I'm certainly grateful for the gift, which will undoubtedly amuse me, but I must say I am insulted to know that you thought you could fool me that easily. Yet you will be forgiven if you please me enough now. If you choose to put up a fight or to submit straight away is your own decision. Just keep me amused, darling. I might even let the girl live, then."

"You will not harm her!" the Phantom snarled, but at the same time he knew how foolish that was. Fear and anguish were tearing him apart inside, while rage and hatred roared and howled in his head.

"Indeed not?" Throwing back her head, Niobe laughed, and the crystal-clear chimes of her laughter made the Phantom shiver inwardly. "Once before you chose an earthling girl over me. And once before I thwarted your pathetic ambitions."

There was no option now but one. But until he got an opening, the Phantom needed to keep her talking, to entertain her in whatever way, just anything, so she would not start harming Christine immediately. "I've never met you before," he said, though he knew that it was useless. They all clung to their mad little story.

"Oh, really? You disappoint me, pretty Erik." Niobe gently scratched Raoul under the chin, and the boy almost purred like a kitten. "But you haven't changed one bit since then, except for your appalling fire-marks. Yes, and you used to wear your hair longer. But you were just as arrogant, and just as stubborn. Don't you remember that secret meeting, in the deepest vaults of Créon's stronghold, far beyond the Circle of Blessing? Don't you remember the demands you made?"

"The only thing I demand of Créon is to go to Hell and leave me in peace." May she be damned forever, that accursed wanton! "And the same goes for you."

"You wanted something else of me then."

"Keep dreaming, bitch," he snapped. Hell devour him alive, how was he to kill her? How was he to save Christine?

"And your manners have not improved one bit, I see. But I wasn't expecting them to, anyway." Patting Raoul's back, Niobe appeared perfectly at ease with herself. "What are you waiting for, sweetie? An opportunity to stab me while I fall victim to another of your so very effective distractions? _Your_ turn to keep on dreaming, love."

Yes, it was true, the Phantom thought, there was no plan left now. They practically stood face to face, he and Niobe, and nothing would happen anymore to change that. However he had tried to avoid the confrontation, however he feared its outcome, there was no escape anymore. If he wanted to kill her, then he would have to do it face to face with her, not from behind.

This was the constellation of the final battle, then.

"Don't you remember the ramparts above your own home, one afternoon in the sun?"

"Don't you remember the Road of Nerayamat?" Christine's voice came from behind him, making him wince. He was tempted to turn towards her, but he forced himself to face Niobe and never look back. Not now. Not anymore.

Niobe was still smiling at what she probably thought was his own uncertainty. "The balcony above the Gates of Heaven?" she prompted. "The place of your duty as well as your treason?" There was at least one thing he could be certain of, then.

As he had expected, Christine's voice continued the taunt from behind him. "Your own bedchamber?" He clenched his teeth as she spoke. But what he had just realized, once he began pondering what their mental combat was going to be like, made his heart beat with hope anew. He could do this, he really could! In the end, there was only one bait he needed.

Only one gambit to play.

Satan help him, but he had to risk it. For all their sakes.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he sought Niobe's gaze, then let go of the shield protecting his mind at last, discarded all defences. "I submit," he said quietly. "Make me remember."

Niobe's eyes widened slightly in surprise, then a triumphant smile curled her lips. "So you have come to me at last, my pretty Erik." One of her arms sank down from Raoul, and at the same time the boy stirred. So close to her, the Phantom could feel her refocus, and it seemed to him that everything was slowing down around him, slowing down more and more –

Niobe's attention shifted, ever so slowly…

The world was going to freeze in mid-motion, he felt, it surely was going to.

Her focus was wandering…

And he found that he did not care whether it froze or not.

Wandering…

Ever so slowly, Raoul was beginning to lift his head –

The focus was approaching, coming closer rapidly… closer… closer…

There was a gentle shift in the power balance behind him, a movement towards Niobe, a partial recalling of her strength…

Closer… almost there…

Her unbound power was waxing ever so slightly as she shifted her attention bit by bit, gram by gram, spark by spark – It was as if a light before him was growing brighter and brighter, a garish sheen that was waxing… waxing…

The contact was coming… the connection… the two ends were there, bending towards each other…

His eyesight blurred as his mind focused on one thing alone; he could feel himself breathe, but far, far away…

The ends were there, the channels of light, the openings of two awarenesses – he had no idea what to call them. But for the first time since facing Niobe, he knew what to do.

And the a flash of light filled his head as those two connected. Their eyes met, and so did their minds.

And Niobe was pushing forward, entering his awareness, pushing forward into the unguarded outlying regions of his mind… He could feel what she deemed her triumph now, her pride, her scorn, her savage joy. She was there; he had her in his head. Tendrils were beginning to creep out as she started a scan of his mind –

_Now._

The fallen walls snapped back up from nothing, sheer and hard and cold, and all around the one point in his head that was her, surrounding her.

Too late, Niobe realized that she was trapped, that a not too small part of her strength was bound inside his head, beating against him uselessly. There was a danger in dividing up one's focus into too many parts…

Already the connection to Raoul was dimming as was the one to Christine, as Niobe tried to reassemble some power to strike out at him and free herself –

There would be no other chance for her. "Forgive me," he said coldly, taking the last step towards her to stand by her side. "I was lying." And then his dagger found its target at last, and his burning hatred found its prey.

Niobe staggered as he withdrew the blade from her side, all the demons of Hell howling in his head, and at the same time Raoul stumbled backwards from her without orientation as he woke from his trance, leaving Niobe to fall against the Phantom, clutching his shoulders.

Their eye contact never broke.

And then her mind lay bare before him.

Images flashed through his head, too fast to follow. A swirl of colours and sensations was making him dizzy, but he pushed past it, down, ever downwards, to what he wanted to see.

"This is for Christine," he hissed at her as he brought up the blade again from between their bodies, stabbing her in the chest. The blood spurting out over his hand gave him equal delight as the liquid light inside her mind pouring out into the darkness. The thrill of it, the satisfaction, the perverse joy! At this moment, he knew nothing else.

There was one image in her mind, one image stronger than all others, drowning them all out. Focusing his mind on it, he recognized himself, or what was supposed to be himself – it was his own face, but without the scars, and his hair appeared to be longer, for some reason, hanging down to his shoulders in lightly curled strands. Yes, this was him, alright, but then again, not entirely. He was wearing a thin black velvet jacket hanging open, and nothing beneath, which might be his style more or less, except that he owned no such jacket. It seemed that he was approaching the beholder – who seemed to be Niobe, but he could not tell, since her mind was dimming rapidly – with a little smile playing on his lips and then pulled her into his embrace, let her rest her head at his shoulder.

And what he could see over his own shoulder made his insides freeze to ice.

Rage billowed up in him like a surging cloud of bats, mad, yet helpless rage. The ice shattered, driving myriads of sharp splinters into his flesh. "And this is for me," he snarled, stabbing Niobe's already crumbling body once again, then roughly pressed his lips to hers, parting them with his tongue, drawing in the taste of blood beginning to fill her mouth. It offered him no satisfaction at all.

And then the last droplet of the essence of Niobe's life was spilled, and her lifeless form slumped down to the ground as he let go of her, but there was no triumph now. He knew he was supposed to feel something, but he felt nothing. Nothing at all. There was only emptiness inside him.

Quietly Raoul stepped up beside him, yet keeping himself at a little distance, gazing at Niobe's fallen body intently. "Gosh," he said at last.

And there was Meg, approaching them carefully, hesitantly, stopping a good five paces away from him. Dimly he was aware of what she must be seeing now, him standing over Niobe's dead body still clutching a blood-stained dagger, his clothes wet with blood that was not his own. And that trickle running down his chin from his lower lip… He carefully tested it with his tongue and tasted blood as well. Once again not his own blood. Meg must be in a state of dread of him currently.

But he did not care. There was nothing he cared about right now. Nothing at all.

Although he did not want to see it, his eyes were irresistibly drawn by one of the pictures on the wall, a coloured sketch he had made himself once, perhaps about a year ago. It showed a pair of ivory-white towers gleaming in the sun, above a mighty iron-barred gate, and ramparts on both sides of it, including structures as what seemed to be entire roofed buildings and minor towers. There were no human figures to help estimate the bulwark's size, and no birds wheeling in the winds of the skies overhead, but he knew that it was gigantic, the most gigantic thing conceivable.

The ice returned, its biting cold paining his insides.

Others were coming now, too, Serge and Leclair and Xavier, but he paid them no heed, and they all stayed away from him.

Kneeling down at Niobe's side, Raoul bent to check her pulse. "_I kissed thee ere I killed thee_," he muttered to himself, and the Phantom recognized the Shakespeare quote without feeling anything at hearing it, not even as Raoul looked up at him with an odd, wondering expression on his face. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing.

And then he felt the hesitant touch of a hand on his forearm, and the ice melted away as he dropped his dagger and turned to face Christine, leaving behind only the slight stinging the cut Adhemar had given him caused him. He only looked at her, drank in her innocent beauty, silently marvelling at her courage to come up to him when no-one else dared to. But there was nothing he found to say to her. Her presence was warming his heart, but still he felt so utterly empty inside.

Christine's eyes strayed to the picture on the wall as well, and then she nodded with quiet understanding. Or was it pity? "I've seen it," she whispered. "I've seen it all. I know."

"I'm no angel," he murmured. There was nothing else to say.

"I know, Erik. I know."


	67. IX Close your Eyes

**IX. Close your Eyes**

"Lord in Heaven," Raoul groaned, slumping down onto the bed while still pulling on the shirt in which he usually slept. "I feel sore all over."

Sitting down beside him, Christine kissed his cheek. "You were so brave."

"Brave? No. _You_ were brave." Crawling under the covers, he held them up for her to slip in beside him. "I'm so proud of you – though I actually don't appreciate it if you endanger yourself."

Christine snuggled up to him, one arm around his waist, and rested her head on his shoulder, as she usually did. "I don't want to let you go alone."

Yawning hugely, Raoul began stroking her hair. "Little Lotte has no reason to worry about me."

"No? You've spent the past two days fighting gypsies in the cellars, and you think I shouldn't worry?" Christine snorted. "Nice try, Raoul. That's all I've got to say."

Beside her, he snickered into the pillow. "Aww, getting an itsywitsy bit haughty, are we, Lotte-snailie?"

Giggling, Christine gave him a gentle swat on the head. She did not see what exactly she had to do with a snail, and it did not exactly sound like a compliment, but she liked Raoul when he was in a silly mood. She liked him in any mood, really, but his silly mood was one of her favourites; she could hardly keep herself from giggling, then.

"Now, now, you bad girl, don't hit the nice uncle!" Raoul protested in an oddly gruff tone, and Christine had barely stopped giggling when she began anew. "If you're not nice to me, you'll have to sleep on the carpet in the living room with the dog."

"Fine," Christine replied, pretending to be indignant, "but I'll take the blanket with me."

"Right, then I'll curl up really small and see if I can shove myself under the pillow. You'll have to unwrap me in the morning."

"What if I leave you as you are and stuff you in the broom cupboard? I'd like to know if you'd still – Hey! Will you stop that?" For Raoul had propped himself up on one elbow and started to tickle her. Squealing, Christine tried to fend him off, but he just would not be stopped. He had done that earlier on already, she recalled, when they had still been children; he had tickled her mercilessly until her squeaks and squeals had caused an adult to come running to investigate what was going on. Back in those days, she had been a lot more ticklish than now, but she still was ticklish enough to squirm. "Raoul! Don't!" Heavens, what if someone of the servants – especially the butler, who kept eyeing her with suspicion, it seemed – heard her now? What would they think? "Please, Raoul! _Stop – it!_"

At last he desisted from her, laughing and shaking his hair out of his eyes. "You should see your face! It's all flushed."

"Does that surprise you, you geek?" Christine gently poked a finger into his stomach. "Anyway, what I wanted to tell you before you assaulted me was that there's no way you can prevent me from worrying about you when you do things like… that."

"Oh, see who's talking." Raoul grinned down at her. "Only a few days ago, you couldn't see the point in _my_ worrying about _you_."

Christine sighed softly. "That was a different matter, Raoul."

"Yes, because it was darling Erik, right?" Her fiancé still spoke gently, but his voice was very slightly tinged with annoyance now. "I don't know if you noticed it, but that's the very same man who covered himself in blood merely hours ago and seemed to be having a jolly good time while doing so."

Christine stared at him with disbelief. Now what was wrong with him? "Erik very probably _saved my life_, Raoul!"

With a sigh, Raoul let himself fall onto his back. "Yes, he might have, but he also slaughtered a woman. _Slaughtered_, Christine. She may have been among the worst kind of criminals, but all the same, you have to face it: That man is evil. He drank her blood, for God's sake! I never witnessed anything like that."

"She hurt him more than you can possibly imagine," Christine said quietly.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Raoul repeated impatiently. "She may have or she may not, but all the same, does that entitle him to anything? You and your Erik! Please, Christine, you know how much I love you, but I really can't stand him. And I can't see why you haven't realized yet that he's a dangerous lunatic and should not be allowed to walk free!"

Christine shook her head sadly. How she wished those two could be friends! Both were dear to her, each in his own special way, and she did not want to reject one of them completely so she could love the other. She wanted to have them with her, both of them, always, however complicated they might be at times.

Well, actually it was not Raoul who was complicated, or only rarely. Raoul was quite simple, in a way, always pleasant, easy to live with, and usually she understood well enough what was going on in his mind. Whereas the Phantom was complex, and he had a depth to him, a deep mystery, that Raoul did not have. He drew her to him, he fascinated her – but at the same time, he scared her. And he confused her utterly. How could one feel safe with somebody at the same time as fearing him? For this was what she had felt when waking from the misty darkness of her trance, when watching him kill Niobe. His burning hatred, his brutality had shocked her, yet at the same time, she had felt that nothing could harm her, that he would deal with every threat in her proximity.

Of course Raoul made her feel safe, too, yet in a different way. She could not have explained; she hardly understood it herself. Maybe it was that strange bond connecting her to the Phantom, and the tenderness she felt whenever he thought of her.

And there was still the question of Erik, of course.

Not that she considered the Phantom and Erik different men. No, they were one and the same. But still, not quite. Erik was gentle and kind, and a little shy maybe, and reminded her a bit of Raoul, in a way. He was a friend, or a brother perhaps, a faithful companion who would not leave her alone and who would always be there for her when she needed him. Yet the Phantom... The Phantom was a man of the extremes, all consuming love and passion as well as burning wrath and hatred, an angel and a demon, a genius and a wild beast. And she really could not say what she felt towards him, except pity for his dark fate. But it was not his Erik side that drew her so magically, that much she knew.

And in a way, that made her afraid of herself.

"Christine, are you listening to me at all?" Raoul demanded. "I was saying that your favourite Phantom –"

"Why is he always _my_ Phantom?" Christine interrupted. Did Raoul really have to do this? "You're jealous, though I can't see why."

"Christine, listen to me." Half sitting up again, Raoul gently turned her so that she was facing him. His blue eyes seemed dark in the scarce light coming in from outside, and his features, usually so merry, bore creases of worry now. "There is something between you and him. No, I'm not accusing you of anything. But I can sense there is something there, something only the two of you can see. Something I can't share." He swallowed. "You love him, don't you?"

She drew a deep breath to steady herself. Heavens above, what was it she felt? What did she really feel towards the Phantom? "I couldn't say," she said.

He nodded with his eyes closed, and as he opened them again, he turned his head away. "You know, I... I..." Suddenly his voice had an unsteady sound to it. "If it's like that... I would be lying if I told you I approved, but I wouldn't want to be in the way. You owe nothing to me. If you love him... then you can just... I don't know, go with him wherever he might want to take you."

"Oh, Raoul!" Throwing back the blanket, Christine wrapped her arms around her fiancé's neck and held him tight. "Don't think that! I never meant it!" Against her cheek, she felt Raoul exhale with relief. "I would never want to leave you."

"I love you," he murmured into her hair, and although he had told her so many times before, it still filled her with a warm, gentle joy. "And I don't want you to leave, whatever all my relatives say."

His relatives? She chose not to think of them. Undoubtedly there were kind people among them, but she suspected that more than one would have his doubts as far as Raoul's sudden and completely unannounced engagement with a young ballerina was concerned. She rather just snuggled into his embrace as she sank back down with him into the pillows. There were no suspicious and disapproving relatives now. There were only the two of them.

And the Phantom. She could feel him, though only dimly, partly because he was shielding his mind again, partly because he was further away than usual. It was a comfort, knowing he was well – at least more or less, at that distance and with the strong blurring caused by his shield it was hard to tell. Maybe he would learn to shield himself without affecting their connection at all in the future. She caught herself wishing he would.

One of Raoul's hands was caressing her side, wandering up and down along it gently, while the other... Now honestly, he couldn't do that! "Raoul! What is your hand doing under my nightshirt?"

"Nothing," he answered innocently, then snickered. "Oh, come on, my love! We've already done worse things than this."

"Yes, and we shouldn't repeat them too soon," Christine told him firmly. "Not before we're married. It was highly improper."

"To be exact, we also aren't supposed to sleep in the same bed, and we're still doing it."

Christine sighed. "There's a certain difference between those things, Raoul. You know that."

He sighed in turn. "Yes, there probably is." Wrapping both arms around her, he pulled her to him tightly. "Is that better?"

"Very much," she murmured contentedly, slipping one of her arms around him in turn. "And I won't let you go again, not ever."

For some time they lay there with their arms around each other, until Christine began to drift over into sleep. Then Raoul suddenly stirred, and she opened her eyes again, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. "What is it?" she asked drowsily.

"Nothing," Raoul muttered. "I'm just fine. I only... had a dream."

Twisting around a little in his embrace, Christine rested her head on his chest. Already a dream? He must have fallen asleep straightaway, then. Poor tired darling. "What was it?"

Raoul sighed softly. "Niobe. I thought I saw her."

"She's dead, Raoul," Christine murmured soothingly, stroking his cheek. "It's alright. She won't harm you."

"I know." Tangling his fingers into her dark curls, he began to play with them gently. "And I'm glad she is."

"Did she hurt you?" Despite everything he said, Christine was still worried about him. Had that horrible woman harmed her fiancé in any way? The Phantom had said she hadn't, but still Christine was unable to dismiss a feeling of unease.

"No, love, I'm really fine. It's nothing like that. It's just... do you know that feeling, trying to fight something off, trying to resist, but not being able to at all? It's like... like being a puppet, dancing on strings. It's just odd. And scary."

Christine continued stroking his cheek. "I know."

"Was it what the Phantom did with you?"

"Something similar, I guess." Letting her fingers wander, Christine tugged at his earlobe playfully. "But you could have told me what you were going to do, not just started making her advances and kissing her and letting yourself be fumbled – or pawed, as you recently called it."

"I'm sorry, darling. I didn't expect her to grope at my bottom."

Christine sighed. "Did Erik mention to you what she tried to get him to do?"

"He told me something like she wanted to get him under a blanket in a quiet corner, something in that style." Raoul passed a hand over her head. "She's the nastiest woman I ever met. You know, I think that one was quite capable of raping a man."

"Erik told me what she did with him, you know, that night when we were alone in the living room."

"My God, did she rape him, then?" If mentioning the night in the living room woke any jealous feelings in Raoul, he did not show it.

"No, luckily not. Though she might have had if we hadn't gotten him out of the cellars first. But judging from what he said, she molested him something dreadfully."

"I never knew women could do that." Christine could feel the slight shiver running through her fiancé. "That feeling that you could do nothing at all against her, that you couldn't even control your own body any longer... I know this is something horrible to say, but I think she deserved what she got."

"Yes. Maybe she did." Raoul was right, it _was_ something horrible to say... but Niobe had been a horrible person, as it seemed, cruel, power-hungry and utterly shameless.

"So your Phantom – well, sorry, _the_ Phantom, if you prefer that – did something of that kind with you?" The strained patience in Raoul's tone was evident. "And still you –"

"No," Christine interrupted decidedly. "He influenced me with his mental powers, but never in the way you were just describing. He made me want to be held by him, to have him very close, and to forget everything around us." As she told him so, she felt her cheeks grow hot. "But I never felt like a puppet. Not really. A bit, maybe. But not in the way you told me, certainly not."

"And yet it scared you."

"Because I didn't understand what was happening to me. I thought I was just having... impure thoughts." Again Christine felt the blood rush into her cheeks, but this time she feared that her face glowed as red as the rising sun. There was no reason for that, she told herself, no reason to feel embarrassed when speaking about such matters in her fiancé's presence, especially since quite a few improper incidents – especially that one immediately after they had returned from the Phantom's lair on that fateful night – had already occurred between them, but still, she was not used to speak about those things freely. There had been the occasional whispering with Meg, of course, and with some other girls from the ballet, but mentioning something of that kind in front of a man, even if she was being cuddled by him at the same time, just did not feel right. "Now, knowing what it is he can do, it scares me less, in a way, I think."

To her great astonishment, Raoul did not have another outbreak of jealousy, nor did he reproach her. Instead, he chuckled softly. "So Little Lotte was harbouring impure thoughts about the Angel of Music? I'm quite sure that wasn't part of the story your father told us."

Christine giggled into the crumpled folds of his rough linen shirt. What an idea! "Yes, but Little Lotte never saw him in person," she pointed out, still filled with mirth. Raoul could be so marvellously silly at just the right times!

"Ah, that might be an explanation. What kind of impure thoughts were those, anyway? If they, by any chance, involved you, him, a bed and lots of scattered clothing on the floor, I'm going to be very, very shocked indeed at your indecency." This last sentence was delivered in the reproachful and scandalised tone an elderly relative might take while observing the offending individual through her lorgnon.

"Raoul!" Christine exclaimed, amused and indignant at the same time. "Really! I was never thinking of _that_!"

"No? Well, that's the usual type of impure thoughts. Let me hear your variations, then."

Christine cleared her throat nervously. Now this was a very private matter, she felt – but Raoul was her future husband, wasn't he? "I wanted him to touch me," she confided. "And I wanted to touch him as well."

"I see." Still no jealousy? Or was it jealousy that made him want to know all about it? "In any, ahem, _interesting _places?"

Christine assumed that the mere thought of what this might include had just made her turn into a personification of sunrise again. "No. No, I don't think so."

"Good. I must say that calms me." So he had been jealous after all, probably. "Those are just innocent little fantasies, love. Nothing to run straight to Confession about."

Christine felt a slight twinge of guilt at his words. She had not been to Confession for some time. And moreover, she had not mentioned how the Phantom's tight-fitting trousers had caught her eye. At least he had worn a longer jacket at the masked ball, but as he had suddenly appeared on stage as Don Juan, his jacket had only reached down to his waist, so that he had given her something to blush at even when turning his back on her. And since keeping her gaze strictly to his face was no help at all because of the power of his eyes, she had tried to look straight at his chest – which had been of no use just as well, because he had been wearing his shirt hanging open a bit too far down. Heavens above, the man was a walking molestation to womanhood!

"Niobe, now," Raoul continued, "Niobe made me think about more."

"She did?" Christine could feel anger rise up in her at the idea of Niobe manipulating her fiancé in that way, yet she suppressed it. There was no point in being angry at the dead. Besides, it was not right, her father had said, long ago. She should not harbour any bad feelings against the dead.

"Yes, she did. She filled my head with very improper images, to use your expression, and she made me want her to do all those things to me. But let us not speak of it." Raoul pulled Christine to him tightly. "There is something else I'd like to know. I just remembered what that man – Adhemar, wasn't it? – was saying to your Phantom friend while they were fighting. I didn't catch all of it, since I was busy fighting myself, but he said odd things. I'm quite sure. And so did Niobe. Do you have any idea what they were talking about?"

"I'm not sure." Remembering what the Phantom had told her, and how fiercely he had denied it all, Christine had hated Niobe and Adhemar both for taunting him so. Yet still... who was he really? What was he? "It's some kind of story Créon made up, apparently. He's trying to convince Erik that he's a fallen angel." God, where had he gotten those powers? Where did those scars come from? And why did those others, those Lost Ones, have them just as well? It could not be a coincidence, though she fervently hoped it was.

"So he's playing at being the Angel of Music again, now is he? Doesn't it get boring after some time?"

"It's really not funny, Raoul."

"Right, sorry. I didn't mean to make fun of you."

Christine wanted to tell him that it was not because of her, but then again, the Phantom had only told her, and nobody else. And she had seen his anguish why he was telling her about it, his fear. He would not want anybody else to know. So she rather kept it to herself and only patted Raoul's shoulder. "It's alright. I'm not angry." The Phantom would be, but the Phantom was back at the Opera House and would never hear about Raoul's remark.

Yet still, that this stupid little story of Créon's was worrying him so much... It worried her, too. Especially since she had seen that image from Niobe's memories reflected through his mind.

Or had it really been from her memories? Had it not just been a feint, her final betrayal before she died? Had Niobe prepared this for him to torment him? Had she been planning to let him see that vision beforehand, hoping that their minds would make contact earlier on already, instead of just very briefly in the end? Or had it been a sudden idea, a last act of malice? Or – she did not want to even think of it, but the thought was there nonetheless – had the Phantom really found the image when searching through her memory? Christine could not say, and she suspected that the Phantom could not, either.

Raoul was stroking her hair again, slowly and gently. "Sleep now, my love," he whispered to her. "Just close your eyes. I'm here with you to chase away the nightmares."

With a contented little sigh, Christine let her eyelids slide shut. Yes, Raoul was there to watch over her... and Erik, too. She would not think about those past horrors anymore. There would be no nightmares now.

Or would there?

And suddenly she was glad that she had already closed her eyes, for otherwise, she felt, she might have been afraid to do so.


	68. X See why in Shadow I hide

**X. See why in Shadow I hide**

Wrapping her blanket around her tightly, Meg curled up and closed her eyes. Still there were wild, unpleasant thoughts in her head, mostly images from the afternoon – Hulot stumbling backwards bleeding, Niobe, leering gypsies, Adhemar's empty eyes – but also memories from a few days ago, flashing past her inner eye, but she tried to ignore them. The Lost Ones had suffered a grave defeat; they would not strike again too soon.

Or would they?

Pushing the idea away, she tried to think of something else. The coming productions, for example.

Which would not come too soon, since a certain Phantom had thrown down the chandelier and caused a fire on stage and in the auditorium.

Or her friend Christine.

Who was away with Raoul currently and would probably quit the ballet to marry the vicomte.

Or how about... her favourite chocolates?

With the Opera Populaire's current situation, there would only be very small wages, which meant that there would be no sweets at all for the time to come.

Meg sighed. Why did all the world have to annoy her currently?

The door to her tiny room creaked very softly, and Meg froze where she lay, unable even to pull the blanket over her head. Créon, she thought. Créon is coming for me... From the darkness inside her head, Lionel's luminous green eyes stared at her once again, like a hunting predator's, full of bestial malice.

And then there was the very softest creaking of floorboards...

Curled up to a ball, Meg awaited the blow with clenched teeth.

"Now, now," a soft voice whispered by her ear. "Why are you scared of me so suddenly?" Then she felt a gentle lurching of the mattress as somebody lowered his weight onto the edge of the bed.

"Erik!" she exclaimed, relieved and furious at the same time. "You gave me such a scare, you jerk!"

Above her, he chuckled softly, and she felt his fingers gently thread into her hair. "Excitable little thing."

"Jerk," she insisted. Only then she realized that her eyes were still pressed closed, and she hastily opened them again to give the Phantom a dirty look. At least this was her plan, because when she looked at him, he gave her such an indecent little smirk that her eyes snapped shut again for a moment all by themselves. "Jerk," she repeated and glared at the ceiling furiously.

"You look so sweet when you sulk, little one," he commented. "Say, do you have any plans for tonight?"

_Plans for tonight_? Immediately Meg jerked upright. Was she already smelling adventure again? "What are you up to?"

He shrugged. "Nothing much. I'm only looking for a bed to move into."

So _that_ was what he was after! How naughty indeed... Meg had to suppress a giggle. "Are you feeling cuddly, then?" An odd thing to say to the Phantom of the Opera, it occurred to her, but the mask's dim white gleam in the shadows beside her held no dread for her anymore, not even after the things she had witnessed on this day. He had killed, but so he had done before, and so had others. He had acted like a bloodthirsty beast, but – Heavens above! – wasn't he entitled to a little bit of mad behaviour, after acting sane for so long? Well… In this case, Meg preferred not to think of the incidents; it was easier.

"Particularly so," he replied cheerfully while taking off his boots and placing them beside the bed. Then, without waiting for an invitation, he swung up his legs and slipped under the blanket beside her, tugging at the blanket. "Won't I get tucked in properly?"

Still giggling, Meg shoved part of the blanket over at him. Currently she felt like a naughty child starting a late-night party in the ballet dormitories, and with the boys as guests. There had been plenty of those occasions, she recalled, before she had been old enough to get a tiny chamber of her own, and the boys had always been eager to visit – especially Xavier. But never had she even imagined that one day she would have the Phantom in her room at night, and even under her blanket.

Now that was a _very_ naughty thought. Her mother would box her ears for sure.

The Phantom shifted around beside her, trying to find a comfortable position, then stretched out on his back, with one arm beneath his head. The bed felt rather crowded now, but comfortably warm. Lying back down beside him, Meg gave his mask a little pat, wondering of what material it was made. It felt leathery under her fingers, yet smooth and hard. Hard leather? Very hard leather? Was there any such thing? And how exactly did he manage to keep the thing on, when there were no ribbons visible to fix it to his face? Surely he didn't just put some kind of sticky substance on it? Meg was very tempted to try and take his mask away, yet she knew from Christine how touchy the Phantom was about actions of that kind, so she resisted the urge and tickled him under the chin instead. His skin felt soft under her fingers, softer than she had expected – and a fool she had been, why should men be rough-skinned? – though there was a little bit of dark stubble already. Meg was surprised at how quickly that obviously grew; he had been completely clean-shaven in the morning. Well, otherwise he wouldn't have to shave every morning. Meg was glad there was no need for her to do so; she did not like the idea of a sharp blade too close to her face and neck very much.

Yawning, the Phantom wrapped an arm around her waist. "Get some sleep, little one," he murmured, his eyes already closed. "We can play in the morning."

This was all the invitation Meg needed to poke him in the ribs. "What if I want to play _right now_?"

"Oh, you little _brat_." His voice was tinged with amusement. "What do you want to play, then?"

"How about Pinch the Ghost?"

"How about Pinch the Ballet Rat?" he returned. "Although from the noises you'll produce, I'd rather call it Slaughter the Piglet."

At first Meg wanted to protest to being called a ballet rat – she was too old to belong to the rat category, she was almost seventeen! –, yet what came after that drove it out of her mind entirely. "Not true! And just wait what noises _you'll_ make!" To underline her threat, she elbowed him in the ribs. "I'll pinch you where it really hurts," she continued, in case he was not intimidated enough. "I know a few good places."

"Really." He did not sound impressed at all. "Now withdraw your elbow; I'm not exactly comfortable."

With a little battle cry, Meg wrestled free of his arm and leaped onto him, settling down on his stomach, straddling him. "Got you," she announced.

He blinked up at her lazily. "Apart from crumpling my shirt, you can't do much to me, I'm afraid."

Meg looked down at him. He was wearing a white shirt, probably made of fine linen, of the kind worn under jacket and waistcoat of an evening dress, without lace or embroidery, but with buttons all the way down the front. And just as she could have told without looking, he had left the two topmost buttons open – though she might have expected it to be the topmost three. "You won't exactly die of a crumpled shirt," she decided. "Though it might wound your pride a little bit."

The Phantom chuckled softly. Already his dark hair was in disarray, spread across the pillow in long strands. "I'll have to take it off, then," he grinned, and his grin broadened as he started unbuttoning it slowly.

Lord in Heavens, did he really have to do this? Meg felt the blush creep onto her cheeks. True enough, she enjoyed an occasional glance at male anatomy, and at his in particular – though she wouldn't say no to a little gawk at Raoul's, either –, and she had seen the Phantom without a shirt before, yet there was still no reason for him to start taking off his clothes while smirking at her. All he wanted to do was make her feel embarrassed; she could see him right through.

Or maybe – her breath caught – he wanted more. From what Christine had told her, it was easy enough to deduct that he had never yet spent a night with a woman. After all that time alone, he would be quite eager to. And if he could not take Christine to bed, then maybe he would try to find satisfaction with somebody else. At once, Meg strongly suspected that his object of choice might be her.

Good God, she couldn't just... She wasn't supposed to... Her mother would never allow... She bit her lips nervously. But surely he wouldn't try to force her? No, he wouldn't, he certainly wouldn't. He was a friend.

But he was the Phantom, after all.

And very suddenly Meg wished that someone were here with her, apart from him, even her mother.

The Phantom sat up very abruptly, throwing her off him and rolling her onto her back, and Meg could not quite suppress a little shriek. While with one hand he held her down, he finished opening his buttons with the other, and Meg expected him to reach for those on his trousers any moment now. Instead, he let her go, but only to undo the buttons on his sleeves. Trying to raise herself up into a half-sitting position, Meg watched with unease as he let his shirt slide off his shoulders, then threw it onto the floor carelessly. And then, before she had any time to escape, he was over her on his hands and knees, and his eyes bored into hers. Once more she felt heat filling her, just like when they had met for the first time, and she wanted to turn her head away, but before she could do anything, he was kissing her already, robbing her of all senses.

As he let her go at last, she gasped for breath. "I hate it when you do that!" she panted.

Still kneeling over her, he smirked once again, and somehow his mask seemed to be mocking her, staring at her from the gloom like a demon's face. "Oh, but surely you enjoyed it."

Once again, Meg felt the blush coming. "But I don't intend to," she snapped defiantly, and the next moment she could have kicked herself for saying such a stupid thing.

Throwing back his head so that the loose strands of hair flew, he laughed, and Meg could have kicked him just as well. "Why? What's wrong with a bit of entertainment?"

"I'll tell my mother you're a horrible lecher!" Meg cried furiously.

"She can tell for herself," he replied, and his smirk even broadened. "We're going to play now, little one."

"What do you want with me?" Meg demanded, expecting him to start ripping the thin fabric of her nightshirt apart from neckline to hem any moment.

"The important question is, what do _you_ want?"

Meg drew a deep breath. "We can't do this, Erik." Would he listen to her? Oh God, make him listen!

His one visible eyebrow went up a fraction. "What's bothering you? Your petty Christian morality, devised by a tribe of desert-dwelling primitives and carried on by a handful of eunuchs afraid of women? Your lusting, your deepest desire is part of you, and you have to embrace it in order not to torment yourself. To satisfy the needs of the body is what makes the soul feel at home in it."

Meg could only stare. The impertinence of him! "Erik, you're saying utterly indecent things to a lady." Maybe her mother's strict tone would help. "I must ask you to stop it immediately."

Lifting up one hand, he caressed her gently under the chin. "A maiden so fair makes my blood boil."

"Oh, you're such a Don Juan, Erik. Now stop it."

His features, framed by tangled strands of dark hair, did not shift at all. "You're afraid," he stated. "What do you fear?"

"You," Meg replied before she could stop herself. Once it was out, she bit her tongue. No, this was not true. But then again, it was. Her heartbeat resounded dully in her ears. He was a very attractive man, in her opinion, and the mystery about him excited her, as did the definite sense of danger, and she had come to consider him as her friend during the last few days, had even imagined him to be her lover… but now, when it came to it, she could not just give herself to him, not like that. Not in that way.

He nodded slowly and withdrew at last, making her breathe easier, and sat down again on the edge of the bed. "I don't mean to scare you," he said softly. "I'm trying not to. But maybe I can't do anything without scaring those I don't want to scare, grotesque gargoyle that I am."

Had it been anybody else, Meg might well have told him to stop lamenting and leave her alone, yet it was something different with the Phantom. He really meant it; she felt that he did. For a moment, she thought to feel all the pain, the guilt, the self-loathing accumulated over all those long years he had spent alone, and it grieved her to imagine what life must be like for him. He pretended to be strong, and he certainly was, but deep down inside, he was defenceless and vulnerable. And he was afraid.

And Meg realized that she was not the only one who could not just give herself away. He needed her to do so because he could not himself.

He would have to learn that there were some he could trust – apart from Christine and her mother, probably, Meg supposed. But could she really teach him? This was something Christine certainly could, but Meg... Was she fit for it at all? She greatly doubted it. All she was was Little Meg, her mother's little jester, everybody's silly playmate, cheerful friend of most of the ballet members. But could she be there for the Phantom, too? Could she ever save him from his solitude?

No, she was not ready for it, she decided. She was not able to. But what she could was try to be his playmate, too, a merry companion to chase away at least some of his darkness.

And she could certainly tell him that he was no gargoyle. Sitting up and crawling over to him, she snaked an arm around his waist. His skin felt soft and warm under her touch, except for a half-healed little cut on his side. "But you're still my favourite Ghost," she said.

His ribcage vibrated gently as he laughed. "You can't know too many Ghosts, little one."

At least she had been successful in one aspect. Meg beamed at him. "You're quite enough for anyone, you naughty little Ghostie."

"Little Ghostie?" he repeated in a tone of staged indignation, and Meg was glad he had been so easy to distract. "Naughty maybe, but little certainly not, and as for Ghostie –"

"Can be debated?" Meg suggested, giggling. Teasing her friends had always been one of her favourite games. Might there be any chance of him being ticklish? Probably not, but maybe it was worth a try.

"I tend to argue against it." Meg squealed as he suddenly pushed her down onto her back and gently began poking her sides with a sharp finger. No, this was unfair! He could not just start tickling _her_! "And to teach you I'm a big bad Ghost, I'll hold you over the fire until you're brown and crunchy, then nibble a few bits off. Your ears look tasty, for example." And despite Meg's squeaking and flailing, he leant down and bit her earlobe.

"Ouch!" Meg exclaimed, though it had not hurt at all. "Bad Ghostie!" This was exactly the way she liked him, rolling around on the bed with her wrestling. She was just not ready to picture any other ways of rolling around in bed with him.

"Don't scream, or your mother might come running." He let himself fall onto the bed beside her again. "And she'd box your ears for lying in bed with me."

"And yours for coming with such wicked intentions." She hoped he had abandoned the idea, or else it might really be better if her mother came.

"Not if you don't want me to." Sighing, he brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "I ought to have a girl," he suddenly said.

Ah, now he named the problem. "We'll find you one," Meg assured him, patting his shoulder. "There are enough in the ballet alone who'd run after you drooling as soon as they see you from up close." Strange, but somehow she didn't want just any ballet tart to come close to him. But no, he would not just take any tart, he had better taste than that. Surely he had.

"Do you enjoy match-making, then?" he asked, clearly amused.

"I haven't really tried it yet." Meg giggled softly at the idea.

He sighed again. "Then there will be nothing but trouble for you. No girl would ever want me."

"Don't say that. It's not true."

"You've never seen me without a mask."

God, did he always have to bring that up? "I have, but not from very close." Yes, she had caught a brief glimpse of his disfigurement when Christine had taken his mask away on stage. Poor little Ghostie darling, it suddenly occurred to her, he would probably have preferred losing his trousers in public to being unmasked. No, she should not think of him as a little darling, but the rest of it very probably held true.

Lord in Heavens, the Phantom on stage in his scarlet underpants! Meg had to suppress a snort of delight. The audience would not have screamed, but laughed, probably, except for a few old ladies, who would have fainted with shock at seeing his underwear, and perhaps some more, who would have been shocked that there could be such indecently tight-fitting underwear, and with the legs cut off. And some of her ballet colleagues would have drooled all over the stage, she guessed. What about her mother? Would she have boxed Christine's ears – for the first time ever, as far as Meg knew – for giving his trousers a tug? Or would she rather have run to cover the Phantom? No, he could probably cover himself. And Carlotta would have quitted the Opera Populaire forever because of the Phantom's underpants stealing her show.

"What's funny?" he grumbled close to her ear, and Meg realized that she must have giggled after all.

"Nothing," she hastily replied. He certainly would not like the idea of standing on stage with his trousers down, and with everybody, including Carlotta and her horrible little doggies, staring at his underpants. Once again, her curiosity broke through. "But will you let me see what you look like?"

"So you have something to shriek and point at?" he answered roughly. "No, never."

"Do you really think I would? Do you think I'm that kind of person?" Meg sat up, puffing her chest out indignantly. "You can trust me, Erik. Just like you can trust my mother." And Christine, she thought, but she rather did not say that aloud.

"That's no reason to take my mask off," he insisted, scowling at her, though she was not quite sure, since she did not see his face that well, even when propped up on her elbow beside him. But at least the mask was scowling. "Leave me alone, will you?" He did not speak as roughly as before, yet still he was clearly displeased with what she had asked of him.

"Erik..." A different tactic now, Meg decided. Maybe it would be more effective. After all, she knew what he liked – at least more or less. Threading the fingers of one hand into his hair, she pulled him close, huddling against him at the same time, and wrapped her other arm around his waist, despite the bit of embarrassment she felt at being so close to him when he was wearing so little. "My sweet little darling Erik." She almost laughed out loud at her own words. "You know I'm very impressed with my brave, strong Ghostie." Here she paused for a moment to place a little kiss on the side of his neck. "And I'll still be impressed if you show me your face." He couldn't look _that_ horrible, she thought. He just was too conceited to show his face, that was all. Arrogant git.

"I don't want to," he said flatly, despite her efforts at stroking his shoulder blades.

Or was he just too lazy? If he was, he deserved a good healthy kick, that much was certain. Otherwise… "Look, I've got an idea. You take your mask off, and you can kiss me until oblivion." Knowing him, he might really do something of that kind.

His visible eyebrow went up questioningly. "And I thought I wasn't supposed to do anything of that kind."

"Oh, that… but I never said anything about kissing me too much, now did I? So you can still kiss me all you like," Meg said slyly. "Besides, why that shy suddenly?" Her mother would box her ears quite horribly, she really would!

"You wouldn't want me to kiss you once you've seen my face."

Now did she dare to say it? Yes, she did. "You don't have any idea how much I want you to kiss me, Erik," she crooned. It would give him nothing but more stupid ideas about what he might do with her, it certainly would, but she would gladly fend him off once again for a glimpse at his face.

"Very well." His voice was a throaty growl suddenly. "But I won't know mercy when you scream. I will be your waking nightmare of a lover, if you want me to." And before she could say or do anything, he had swiftly thrown off his mask onto the pillow beside her and was pinning her down, already kissing her, too fast for her to get a clear look at his distorted features. And Heavens above, how he kissed her! The world was spinning madly, she felt, revolving around her, as she was clutching his shoulders not to fall into an abyss she could not see… His presence filled her as it had not done before since he had first entered the room, entrancing her, enchanting her, consuming her, and she could not fight it, and would never, never want to, not ever again. His tongue brushed along the line of her teeth, then flicked against her own, making her almost claw at his back and shoulders. Lord, this was pure bliss! Her mother could box her ears ten, no, a hundred times, and she would not care! Then he broke the contact, only to press his lips to the side of her jaw, then down her neck in a burning line, nibbling and licking her skin briefly all the way down to her collarbone. No, a thousand times! A million times! However often her mother wanted! Who cared? Who would care at all? And his skin felt so smooth and warm under her touch, the muscles taut and hard beneath it. As his lips travelled further down, her hands went up along the sides of his neck and into his tangled hair, to his cheeks – His head was turned so that she could not reach his right cheek that easily, and her fingers brushed over her own flushed skin as she tried. And at the same time he was pushing her nightshirt off one shoulder, hungrily kissing what he exposed. At the side of her neck, the moist trail he had left behind was already feeling cold, but down on her upper chest, it was hot as fire. She must be steaming, she felt. And his breath against her skin… could he be breathing pure flames? God, burning up had never felt so good!

He had reached the lowest he could get without tearing her nightshirt – and part of her desperately wanted him to do so, to just rip it off her and continue kissing her forever – and was now suckling at her skin gently, the fingers of one hand threaded into her hair tightly while the other still rested on her shoulder, holding her down even though it was unnecessary. She was still more or less decently covered, though he managed to slip his tongue beneath her neckline a little. As he did so, she at last reached the right side of his jaw and traced his cheek upwards curiously, up to his nose –

And then she felt it, the uneven and somewhat rougher skin of the part of his face he usually kept hidden, beginning slightly above his upper lip, beside his nose, and going up all the way to his eye and above – one eyebrow was much thinner than the other –, and back to his ear and partly into the hair at his temple. She traced the scars with her fingertips gently, keeping her eyes closed and picturing what he would look like when he faced her, and prepared for a solid shock at what she would feel any moment, but it did not come. There were just scars, nothing more. Just scars. And they, too, felt warm.

Suddenly she realized that he had ceased his remorseless assault on her senses – how could she have missed that? – and was just cowering over her now, holding perfectly still as she stroked his marred cheek. Then, as she rested her hand over it lightly, a tremor seemed to run through him. "Now you know," he murmured, his breath tingling her moistened skin. "Now you know why I'm doomed to hide in darkness forever."

Opening her eyes at last, and having not the slightest idea about for how long they had been closed, Meg stroked his hair briefly with her other hand. "Not yet. Look at me, Erik."

At first she thought he was not going to, but then he sat up slowly, facing her. Their eyes met, and though it was too dark to tell for sure, she thought that his carried a hunted look, a frightened look very suddenly. And there were the scars she had felt, uneven and darker than the smooth skin around them…

And then Meg suddenly laughed, however irrational that was.

Immediately his lips twisted into a snarl, and his bared teeth gleamed in the semi-darkness of the room. "So you find it funny, do you?" One of his hands shot out and closed around her throat with choking strength, making her gasp for air at once. "So you laugh at the loathsome monster that I am?"

"No, Erik, no!" She struggled to free herself, but his grip was just too strong, and it was growing tighter with every passing moment. Oh God, he was going to kill her! "Please, Erik! It's just – I imagined it – to be so much – worse –"

She coughed as he suddenly released her, massaging her throat. "What did you just say?" he demanded above her, still dangerous, but… hopeful.

"I'm sorry, Erik," Meg said, reaching up to caress his scarred cheek again, and he did not pull away. "It was stupid to laugh, but I was just so glad you look so much better than I had imagined. God, I thought you'd have half a skull beneath that mask or reptile scales or something, all those things rumours say. But those are only scars. To me, you're no monster at all, and you wouldn't be even if you had a dragon's skull for a face."

And then he smiled and stroked her cheek in turn. He did not say anything, but his eyes showed how grateful he was.

Meg laughed again softly as he stretched out close beside her, just for joy. And Lord above, what they had been doing just a minute ago… "Have you been messing with my mind again? I suspect you did." But she was not angry at him, not at all, not when he stroked her cheek so tenderly.

His breath tickled her ear as he chuckled. "A little, maybe. Just a little."

"Naughty, naughty." Meg huddled against him closely, pulling the blanket over them both. She had never felt closer to him than she did now, not even just before when he had kissed her so passionately, yet now it was in a surprisingly innocent way, like with the closest of friends.

"But I'll be a good boy now." He managed to slip an arm beneath her waist, pulling her half over him as he lay on his back. "Just hold me for a bit."

One arm around him, the other hand on his chest, a little beneath where she rested her cheek, Meg comfortably closed her eyes. She was lying like with a lover, but it did not bother her, nor did his partial lack of clothing unsettle her any longer. He was just Erik, after all. Just her Erik.

And he had left the mask lying on the pillow beside him.


	69. BOOK TEN: The Fate of the Fateless

**Book Ten: The Fate of the Fateless**

I. Succumb to me  
II. Trust me  
III. Dark Fate  
IV. The Point of No Return  
V. Angel in Hell  
VI. Man and Mystery  
VII. Learn to find your Way in Darkness  
VIII. How you've repaid me  
IX. You've always known  
X. Let the Dream begin  
XI. Night unfurls its Splendour

Author's Note: _So this is the final Book of _The King of the Catacombs_. Don't be sad when it's finished, though, because shortly after this Book's final chapter is posted (and if there are enough reviews gg), this story's sequel, _**THE SHADOW OF WAR**_, will appear on this site._

_Something I'd like to mention first, apart from thanking all my reviewers: One of you, Bea, has started a rather fine Italian translation of this (my knowledge of Italian is poor, sadly, but it's enough to see that it's a really good translation). All of you who want to know what _Il re delle catacombe_ looks and sounds like, e-mail me for the link. A huge bouquet of virtual red roses (all with black ribbons, of course) for Bea!_

_And my very special thanks go to Arikitten from this site, my new Beta! She'll take some time to catch up with how far I am currently, but she's coming after me at a good pace. Another huge bouquet of the same kind for her!_

_Now, hello to all my lovely new reviewers! And hello to the old ones as well, and thanks to you all, as I said above. And as soon as the sequel's out, all your reviews will be answered at the beginning of each chapter. Yep, promise. Unbreakable Vow (sorry, just finished reading the new Harry Potter and couldn't resist)._

_Oh, and just a note to those who quote the beginning of "Angel of Music" at me (yes, there are several g): Not that I don't appreciate it, but "brava, brava, bravissima" is the female form. Yes, I know, it's meant as a compliment, but it makes me feel a bit… castrated. ;-)_

_As I'm writing this, I'm already halfway into the third chapter of this Book. And I can't wait for the final showdown. How about you, I wonder? Just a little tip: The more reviews I get, the sooner it will be there. Do we have a deal? ;)_


	70. I Succumb to me

**I. Succumb to me**

Staring into the flickering light of the fire burning in one of the braziers, Créon had to admit to himself a truth he did not like to face: He was afraid.

How could the boy have done it? How could he possibly? At one stroke, Créon had lost his two most valuable men at that inexperienced youth's hands – except that Niobe was a woman, of course, but it did not matter to him whether someone was male or female, as long as they served him. Adhemar, his most faithful and reliable acolyte, was dead. As was Niobe, the strongest among his followers.

In a corner, all by himself, Bertrand was standing, looking utterly lost and shivering visibly. The man probably thought that he was going to be the next to die. Watching him, Créon's upper lip curled with disdain. How could one of a better kind than the servants around him forget himself so much?

The servants. He was losing servants rapidly, too. Not that they were of any real importance, yet to have some was necessary, and getting new servants was always bothersome. Some of them had already run away, as far as he knew.

Turning his head, he found himself facing just whom he had expected to face. "Make sure their morale improves, Febis," he commanded, keeping his voice clipped and emotionless.

The tall old man with the white hair and beard and the proud, noble features, inclined his head in acceptance. "Yes, Master." His voice was full and deep. "I will once again increase the numbers on the patrols, though that means less patrols, and less cover for us here."

Créon nodded curtly. "Do it." Then he turned his attention to the dancing flames again. That man was a gypsy, yet not of the kind of the others. Of their blood maybe, yet not with a mind quite as petty as theirs, thieves and thugs as they were, though he was not a Lost One by far. A shaman he called himself, a magician and conjuror, and though Créon had never seen any of the old man's arts, he did not doubt his word. But he did not truly care. What really mattered was that Febis kept the servants in check, nothing more. That was all he was there for. Why should Créon bother with the servants himself?

The boy. Still he managed to elude him. Still he managed to uphold the shield on himself. For a moment he had let it slip, just before he had killed Niobe, and Créon had felt his exhaustion then, so it was only a question of time until he lost it utterly. Créon would just have to wait.

Yet still, even with his mind unprotected by an outer barrier, the boy was strong. Tremendously strong.

He had always been strong.

_In the firelight, his soot-darkened features seemed twisted, his shoulder-length hair dishevelled, the strands partially moist with sweat and blood. His teeth seemed strangely white as he bared them to a snarl. "You cannot win," he hissed over their crossed blades, his bright eyes alight with the fire of hatred._

_"Neither can you," the Herald of Fate rumbled. "You have already lost, greedy fool, whatever you choose now." His opponent side-stepped and launched another attack, which he parried, though its fierceness made him stumble. "If you win or lose this duel does not matter anymore, for already you are an outcast, a traitor of your own blood."_

_"Give her back!" his opponent cried, raining him with blows, without his usual grace at combat, just with the brute force his wrath and pain gave him._

_The Herald of Fate laughed, heedless of the bleeding cut across the shoulder he had just received. "This matter is out of my hands, my friend. What I did cannot be undone. The dead cannot be recalled from the Twilight."_

_"The Lord of Shadows owes me a favour!" The fool's swirling blade met his thigh, and he almost fell, but he did not care. Wounds would heal._

_"Really?"__ He countered the attack, assaulting his opponent's mind at the same time, but both were thrown off. "And do you think he really would grant it now? Not anymore, apart from the question if a soul's worth was ever included in the promise of a little treat for the amusement of hearing your pretty voice."_

_Once again he felt the cold steel cut into his flesh. "Hold your filthy tongue, or I will cut it out and feed it to the crows!"_

_"You may try, my foolish friend. You may try."_

Yes, the young fool had not changed one bit. He was still who he had used to be, though he seemed to remember nothing at all.

Nothing at all? Créon had found no traces of memory in his mind, yet what he had seen in young Erik's dwelling identified him clearly enough, apart from his features and scars. For who else would be able to draw an accurate sketch of the Pillars of Heaven? And who could do it better than the man who had originally devised and built them? The pictures had shown them just as they had been, as Créon remembered them, the vast bulwarks and bastions of the world of the Divine, steep, sheer ramparts crowned by parapets of stone, watchtowers, turrets and pinnacles rising up to heights almost unconceivable to humankind. They had been built after the exile of the Bearer of Light and the First War of the Shadow, and they had served their purpose, for never had they fallen, not even in the end. They had been breached through treason alone, and by the very same man who had built them, and whose duty it had been to guard the inner realm of the Divine against the threat of the Shadow.

What irony lay in the fates of those of the divine blood just as well as in those of lesser men!

And once again Créon would prove this irony, by overthrowing the boy in his very own realm.

He had to. He simply had to. Failure was no option to him. This time, he had to succeed in manipulating and ensnaring the boy.

And this time, he would be careful not to underestimate what was called the power of love.

Would the boy's friends turn up again? If they did, they would be killed this time. They had no more function, no more use now. Except the girl, who might have to be kept close for some time. Créon had not quite decided on that. Once before he had tried to manipulate him by means of using the girl, and it had not worked the last time. The last time, the foolish boy had destroyed himself when he had learned of her death, so this mistake would not be repeated. The others could die, but not the girl young Erik loved.

He had meant to make use of Adhemar in order to break the boy. Now he would have to think of something else.

And the boy would pay dearly for the loss of Adhemar!

As things were, there was only Aeternus left to him, for Bertrand was of little use. Only Aeternus. Créon clenched his teeth. Aeternus was impossible to control, not to be trusted. Aeternus had a mind of his own, and he used to play a game of his own sometimes. He might be playing one of his little games even now, who knew? Never rebelling openly, he still sometimes acted as he chose to, without consulting anyone else first – if he acted at all. For Créon remembered what Aeternus had once been, ages and ages ago. Aeternus had always been… different. And Créon knew what all the others of his men and allies did not: He knew what the rotten, shrivelled hand meant.

The confrontation would come, and it would come on this new day, Créon was certain. Young Erik would come to him once again. He had always come back.

Time to devise a new plan, then. The Keeper of the Gates needed to yield to the Herald of Fate before the reign of eternal darkness could begin.

And Créon would make him. He had to. There was no other choice for him; there had never been.

Staring into the fire, his own admittance of fear filled him with anger. There was so much the boy would have to answer for. So much…


	71. II Trust me

**II. Trust me**

"This is certainly most irregular," Firmin stated, stroking his bushy moustache.

Madame Giry cast him a sideways glance. The man was an idiot, and he knew nothing of opera. All he knew was business; he was fit to sell seats, but that was all as far as his abilities were concerned. Madame Giry did not like him at all, but neither did she like André, for that matter.

"But he has a point, you have to admit that." André was pacing their study nervously, while being careful not to come too close to the Phantom. Had the situation not been serious, Madame Giry might have laughed. "Of course we can take up productions again, even when there's only half the stage, if we just find something suitable to play, something where we have to bring in odd pieces of scenery, for example."

Firmin frowned. "Odd pieces of scenery? André, this weak attempt at humour is doing nothing for my nerves."

But his partner did not heed him at all; it seemed that he had been gripped by enthusiasm suddenly. "Like… ships. Ships is a good idea. Large ships, yes. We could stage something with spectacular ships in it. How about Wagner's _Flying Dutchman, _for example?"

"My goodness, no!" Firmin protested. "Is that not that crazy German's opera, with the huge orchestra? We don't have enough musicians, for goodness's sake! I doubt we have a large enough orchestra pit, for that matter!"

"It has been done before," André insisted. "In this very house. The ships are still there, too; we'd only have to put them back together, that's all. And don't you my goodness me all the time, my dear Firmin! I know what I'm speaking about."

Yes, Madame Giry actually tended to believe that. Monsieur André might be a silly peacock, but opera had been his one great hobby before he had come here. At least he knew something about it, though his knowledge might be somewhat limited; she was not quite sure about it. And as for this particular opera… Yes, it had indeed been done before. She remembered it only too well, because she had still been part of the ballet, then. And she remembered the monumental music, which had quite captivated her, and completely captivated her young Ghost friend.

When she looked at the Phantom, standing with one shoulder against the wall in a corner, she saw that he was smiling.

"Oh, really?" Firmin drew himself up importantly. "Then you must recall the scandal the very same composer caused in 1860, right here in this city, over at the Grand Opera. The _Lohengrin_ scandal, I believe it was. My dear André, do you want that repeated? Do you want uproar and chaos in the auditorium?"

"You are referring to the _Tannhäuser_ scandal, probably," the Phantom said quietly. "And the year you're looking for is 1861."

Firmin froze, and both managers' heads swivelled around, meeting the Phantom's sharp gaze, then hastily turned away again. André hesitated for a moment, then resumed his pacing, while Firmin muttered something incomprehensible. The only words Madame Giry caught were "huge scandal" and "repeated".

"There is no danger of that," the Phantom said calmly, throwing his cloak over the back of André's chair carelessly as he spoke. André's eyes bulged, but he did not object in any way. Seemingly completely at his ease, the Phantom loosened his cravat slightly before he continued, "The reason for the audience's behaviour was simply that they objected to there being no ballet scene in _Tannhäuser_. And as you hopefully know, _The Flying Dutchman_ contains several of those."

"Oh yes," André said hastily, almost falling over himself to get out his knowledge as quickly as possible. "The third act, it has a major one, with two, no, three separate choirs on stage, too, and I think the second, yes, and has one, too."

"Well done, Monsieur André," the Phantom commented sarcastically. In his perfectly fitting evening dress and with his favourite bronze-coloured waistcoat, masked in white, and wearing his usual air of disdain, he was every bit like Madame Giry had come to know him during the last few years. He had grown more and more arrogant, and she knew for certain that he employed one of the Opera Populaire's seamstresses now for private purposes, though she did not quite know which one. A girl with few friends, probably, and, more importantly, one who was easily intimidated.

"Do you want us to perform it, then?" Firmin inquired carefully. However often they had ignored the Phantom's commands before, they did not dare to when confronting him in person.

The Phantom nodded curtly, and Madame Giry almost smiled. For old times' sake, Erik?

Drawing a deep breath, Firmin continued, "But Carlotta is not going to be singing! She was gravely insulted by this Créon person the evening before yesterday and now expects us to make him apologize!"

In the Phantom's face, no muscle moved. "He insulted my taste as well by that, and he is going to apologize to _me_, of that much I am certain. I am going to deal with him today. As for Carlotta – we don't need her."

André swallowed. "However you say, but there is still the question of Piangi. We don't have a lead tenor anymore!" He even dared to throw the Phantom an accusing look, but when the Phantom raised his eyebrows at him, he hurriedly stared at his own perfectly polished shoes instead.

"Except," Firmin spoke up again, and would not be silenced by André's sudden frantic gestures, which made the little man look like some overexcited kind of bird, in Madame Giry's opinion, "if _you_ take the main tenor part."

There was a moment of silence, as everybody tried to get over his initial surprise. Were they really doing this? After all that had occurred, was Firmin really offering the Phantom a job? Had she heard correctly, Madame Giry wondered, or was this maybe a stupid joke of the man's, and one he would soon regret?

"You want me to be Erik?" the Phantom asked quietly, and Madame Giry had to smile at the hidden meaning in this, a meaning only she saw. Yes, he would have to be well-behaved, tame Erik if he wanted to come into the open ever again.

But actually, it occurred to her, had her Erik ever been tame and well-behaved? Maybe tame, compared to the Phantom's recent actions, but never well-behaved.

Firmin tried a jovial smile. "Yes, we do."

For some time – Madame Giry could not have said for how long – the Phantom just looked at him, and Firmin's smile practically faded away, or melted away; Madame Giry somehow found that this expression described it quite perfectly, although it sounded a bit odd to her. Funny, she thought as she watched the two men, how such silly little realizations sometimes came totally unasked for, destined to be considered for a moment and then to be forgotten just as quickly as it had come. But maybe this one she would remember.

At last Firmin took a step backwards. It was not a very large step – nor was it a particularly small step, for that matter – but it was obvious that he was very uncomfortable under the Phantom's sharp, scrutinizing gaze. "Well…" he murmured.

"Are you yet going to change your mind?" the Phantom asked, watching him. Like so often, his face was a façade, but this time, Madame Giry knew exactly what was going on in his mind. _He had dreamed of this moment for years and years, ever since he had first come here._ But if he showed enthusiasm now, he would not be believable anymore, he probably feared. He had to be careful, and neither could he accept immediately nor decline. And he had to find out what those two were playing at first.

Firmin visibly swallowed. "No. No, the offer stands." André's frown deepened, but Firmin did not look at his partner, who by now seemed to have given up on him.

Once again the Phantom eyed Firmin up and down, and Madame Giry found herself holding her breath. "Well, Monsieur Firmin," he said at last, "you're the business man. I assume you know what you are doing. How about the question of the public?"

The public, yes. Madame Giry's own point, precisely. Would they not be afraid to set foot in the Opera Populaire if _O.G._ appeared on the evening's cast list? Would they ever dare?

It seemed that Firmin had thought about this problem before, for he understood straight away what the Phantom meant, and he answered straight away. "At first there won't be as much as there could be, but after the first two evenings, I bet the house will be packed to the ceiling," he replied boldly.

"If you think so." The Phantom shrugged. "I only hope for your own sake that you are correct with your assumption, because I might well accept."

Madame Giry exhaled at last, and it seemed to her that Firmin was doing just the same. Had she been holding her breath all that time? No, probably not. Silly thing to do, anyway.

To draw the others' attention back to him, André cleared his throat, though he certainly did not appreciate the Phantom's attention very much. "I will inform Monsieur Reyer and all the others who need to know immediately," he announced. In his colourfully embroidered waistcoat, he looked like an odd species of peacock, Madame Giry thought once again. "And I will have a word personally with those who work on rebuilding the stage and auditorium."

The Phantom nodded curtly, his face not displaying one single emotion. "Thank you, Monsieur André. You are dismissed."

For a moment André stood gaping, and Madame Giry would have laughed if she had not bitten down on her tongue rather fiercely to prevent herself from doing so. Then he drew himself up like a cockerel and marched out, in a hurry but at the same time trying to demonstrate he was not, which resulted in a rather erratic-seeming kind of walk. Madame Giry tried not to watch him as he left the office.

"Very well," the Phantom said. He had a way of saying that very slowly and deliberately, Madame Giry noticed, in the way a fine villain would say it. And he was good at playing the villain, he really was. So good that it already got on her nerves quite horribly sometimes. "I expect you two to do your best, Monsieur Firmin. And I would be much obliged if the role of Senta went to Mademoiselle Daaé." Right on cue, a tone of mockery entered his voice for a moment, only to vanish again completely when he continued, "I assure you, she can sing the part. And as for you two – You will have to trust me, I think." Turning, he nodded to Madame Giry as he picked his cloak back up and threw it around his shoulders once more, letting it billow quite expertly. "This is all. You come with me." Then he gave Firmin one of his mock bows, complete with a swirl of his cloak, and strode out.

Madame Giry followed, though with gritted teeth. The nerve of him! Ordering her around, was he? Oh no, she did not think so!

Once they were on the corridor, and once she saw there was no one else around, she took him by the arm firmly. "Now listen here," she told him sternly as he stopped sharp and gave her a somewhat puzzled look, "I don't hold with you commanding me to come and go at just a word from you, is that understood?" One of these days, the man really needed to have his ears boxed for his own good!

"No, _you_ listen," he abruptly growled, shaking her off rather roughly. "It's for your own best. If I fail, if this all goes wrong, do you want them to know that this is a personal thing between us, not just business? I was saving you a mighty bit of trouble by treating you just like another servant, damn you, and this is how you repay me?"

There was only one way to react to his behaviour, whatever else he might say afterwards. Glancing up and down the corridor briefly to see if they were still alone, she swiftly applied a sharp box to his left ear, though not a particular forceful one. "This is for saying _damn you_," she explained. "Thank you for the rest." Then she steeled herself for his reaction.

She would have expected anything, but not what he did: He laughed. He simply stood there and laughed, and it was not the maniacal laughter she had heard from him occasionally and shuddered. It was just a normal, amused kind of laughter. "Oh, Claire," he said at last, "you are the most pragmatic person I ever met. I think you should run this country."

She shot him a frown. Was he making fun of her? What was she to make of that remark?

Then, very suddenly, his expression was serious again. "But the same I just told that fool behind that door goes for you: You will have to learn to trust me."

She sighed softly, though that was probably a stupid reaction. "I do, Erik. I do." Yes, she knew she had to look past the façade he usually showed, past that façade of coldness and arrogance and biting mockery he used to build up around himself to hide his own vulnerability. Why did he still think that showing attachment or even affection was weakness? But she was not going to change him, not so soon. And until then, she really had to bear in mind that he might act differently from the way he thought. Still, it was hard sometimes, especially if he was behaving like that.

The look he gave her was doubtful, but she did not want to discuss the matter any further. So she went with him without protest as he nodded at her to do so. Yet this time, he briefly caressed her shoulder as they went.


	72. III Dark Fate

**III. Dark Fate**

"Oh, curse it all!" Raoul exclaimed. "I'm just wearing the same black shirt, tear or not."

From his place on Raoul's favourite chair in the corner, the Phantom nodded approvingly. "You're making some progress, kid. With both your swearing and your behaviour."

Raoul rolled his eyes at him. The Phantom's scathing comments got on his nerves, though he readily admitted that they were a lot less scathing than they had been earlier on. Impossible as it seemed, the Phantom was improving – though he might just be getting used to him.

Both of them were at Raoul's room in the Chagny mansion, preparing – or, in the case of the Phantom, having finished preparing – for another day of battle under dark, and there were only the two of them. When he considered it, Raoul found this fact somewhat surprising, yet it could be easily explained by the circumstances. Right now, the girls were getting ready, too, and they were both in a room together, though further along the corridor, and both he and the Phantom had offered to assist them, but instead of appreciation or at least of thanks, the pair of them had been thrown out, and Raoul still could not quite see why. Well, that Meg did not want to get changed with him watching was understandable, yet the problem could have been effortlessly solved by him facing the wall for some time, especially since Meg had certainly been present when he had pulled on the shirt he had just been wearing, the one he was now returning to his cupboard, since he had come to the conclusion that it got crumpled too easily, and moreover, it had been expensive. But that Christine would not have him in the same room… Yes, of course it was improper for a girl to change her clothes with her fiancé watching before marriage, but there really was no reason for false modesty, since Christine had been wearing considerably less in Raoul's company already, and since all four of them knew this exactly. That she did not want the Phantom watching was very reasonable, though, no matter whether he claimed he had seen her in her underwear before or not. But actually, Raoul had to admit, facing the wall would have done the trick here just as well. And it was just the same in the case of the Phantom and Meg – Meg had watched him in a state of being considerably undressed just as well. Oh, alright, it was his own fault when he changed his trousers with the girls watching – and the girls had neither found this upsetting nor especially improper, as it had appeared from their behaviour, those naughty little hypocrites – but all the same, it was hardly fair. They peeped quite shamelessly while he and the Phantom got changed, yet when they wanted to change themselves, the men were simply thrown out. Hardly fair, indeed. So before either of them had known what they were doing, they had exchanged an exasperated glance, agreed upon women being bothersome and complicated in general, and marched out together with their noses in the air. Only when he had been out in the corridor, Raoul had truly realized who was associating against whom here, and it had been a somewhat odd feeling to find himself united with the Phantom in this matter.

Still, with those two girls in the house who were preparing for adventure so very importantly, even Christine strutting around practically as if she owned the world, it was good to have another man at hand who would agree with him, even if the man in question was a complete madman and ought to be locked up, and the key thrown into a deep cistern.

Oh, _women_… Raoul certainly did not belong to those who were of the opinion that women were vain and stupid creatures by nature; he rather resented this and thought quite the opposite. Yet to his mind, women could definitely be odd at times, and rather troublesome. And currently, both Christine and Meg were having such a phase. Not that he was angry with either of them – he loved Christine dearly, and any friend of hers was a friend of his, apart from the Phantom, of course –, but still, why were they throwing him out? As if he were some kind of lecher! He would certainly not stare at either of them in any lustful and improper way; he had told them so twice, but all they had said was that he would stare nonetheless, and that the pair of them was to leave the room immediately. As if he would have tried to look!

Though there couldn't possibly be anything wrong with a little peeping, could there?

No, he was not supposed to think like that, definitely not.

Putting the neatly folded shirt back into its place in the cupboard, he wondered where the one he had worn on the day before might have gotten to. Where had he put it, after taking it off? The laundry basket, by any chance? No, he had left it in this very room, he was quite sure, he had not taken it to the bathroom.

Had one of the servants perhaps –

"Trouble finding something?" the Phantom inquired from behind him, again in a mocking tone, yet not unpleasantly so.

Raoul sighed. "Yes, my shirt. Another female deed, I suspect."

"Hmm," the Phantom said. "Women certainly have the habit of cleaning up after you, whether it is appreciated or not. Or maybe even _especially_ when you plainly tell them you don't want them to clean up."

"True enough," Raoul agreed. At least the man knew what he was speaking of, it seemed. Who had been trying to tidy up in his wake? Madame Giry? Or maybe even Christine?

"And they won't be stopped."

"True again," Raoul said. "They can have quite thick skulls when they've set their charming little minds to something."

There was a little pause. "I would not want to miss them for anything in the world, though."

"No, me neither. Ah, here it is; one of the serving girls must have put it away, but in the wrong place." And once again, Raoul thought, while pulling on the shirt, surprised that it had not found its way into the laundry basket after all, he was agreeing with the Phantom. Well, as long as the old villain was being reasonable…

Which reminded him. He had been burning to find out more about this ever since the encounter with two of the Lost Ones yesterday, when he had heard those strange things Christine had not fully been able to explain. Now was as good a time as any other. "You know, about this Lost Ones business," he began carefully. "Do you have any idea where the name comes from?"

"No," the Phantom said simply.

"Now how about the Fateless?"

"I told you, kid, I don't know," the Phantom answered impatiently. "Why do you ask?"

Tugging at his shirt, and finding that the tear in the sleeve was not as obvious by far as he had feared it might be, Raoul turned to face him. "Because I've heard the term before."

At once the Phantom was on his feet, and Raoul was amazed at how swiftly he covered the distance between them. "Where?" he demanded sharply. "What do you know?"

Raoul shrugged. "It's not much really, but I thought it might be useful to know."

The Phantom's eyes bored into his. "Why don't you just tell me then, fop boy?"

Raoul chose to ignore this last remark. "Do you know Homer's Iliad?"

"Of course," the Phantom replied with an impatient gesture of his already gloved right hand, as if waving the question away. "What do you have to go asking me stupid things for?"

"The original version?" Raoul insisted.

The Phantom gave him a frown, which was mirrored by the grim look of his white half-mask. "What do you mean, original?"

No, Raoul decided, he could not possibly know any ancient Greek. Where should he have learned? "The word's in there," he explained, not mentioning the question about the Greek version again because the Phantom might take offence, who knew? "The word _fateless_. King Priam uses it when speaking of Hector, you know, when he comes to the camp at night to ask Achilles to return Hector's body to him –"

"_Return_?" the Phantom interjected. "Priam never had it in the beginning, since Achilles chose to tie Hector to his chariot straight away and drag him around a bit. Anyway, continue."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," Raoul grumbled. That arrogant bastard! Well, the next time he would pick his words more carefully. "Right, the term occurs there, and it has a specific meaning, too."

"Yes?" the Phantom prompted. So he was interested in this, now was he?

"It means unhappy, unlucky, something like that." Bloody Hell, there had to be a better word, a more appropriate word! "With a bad fate," Raoul tried.

"Ill-fated," the Phantom provided with a lopsided, yet grim little grin, which disappeared again straight away. "Well, I got the message, kid. No need to rub it in." And with this, he turned sharply, heading for the door.

Now what was that about? "Hey, wait a minute," Raoul cried. "Rub in _what_, precisely?"

Once again, the Phantom turned sharply, but this time to face Raoul, and his eyes were ablaze. "That I'm just a pathetic wretch and will stay one forever!" he snarled. "And now leave me alone, or I might forget all damn promises and hurt you!"

"I never said that!" Raoul protested. "And I never meant to say it!" Really, what did he take him for? "I'm not that kind of man, doing that kind of thing. Maybe you are, but certainly not me."

"Oh, so you think I'm just like everybody else, do you mean that?" The Phantom's teeth were bared in a snarl once again, as so often when he was angry; Raoul knew this expression only too well by now. Surprising, he thought, he actually has perfectly white teeth… I wonder how he does it? "And you think I'm just exaggerating to make myself important?"

Raoul sighed. "Not that, either. As a matter of fact, I was saying absolutely nothing about you. I just recognized that name, and I thought you might like to know." Better if he had held his tongue, probably.

"No, but implying," the Phantom growled, though without much conviction. Was it the strain of the past few days getting to him at last, or was it just his usual foul temper? Whatever it was, it seemed that the flare-up of anger was over now more or less. "Just watch your tongue with me, kid."

"Right," Raoul said with a calming gesture. "_Right._ Nobody's troubling you." He would tell Christine how bothersome her Phantom friend had been once again! Surely that would earn him an extra cuddling for his remarkable patience before falling asleep tonight.

At least the Phantom was making no more trouble now. He sank back into the armchair he had already sat in in the beginning, brushing a loose strand of hair out of his face, and sighed. "What's it like, Raoul, being normal?" he asked softly.

Raoul froze where he was. Had he just heard correctly? This was the first time the Phantom had ever called him with his name, it seemed. Yes, it must be the first time ever. And how peacefully he was sitting now… Probably he already regretted his earlier attack. Of course he was not going to apologize, but it seemed that he at least felt sorry, unless Raoul was much mistaken. And again there was this sadness in his eyes, that lingering, heavy sadness Raoul had seen before… What _was_ it like? And what would it be like to live behind those eyes? "I couldn't say," he said quietly.

The Phantom rested his head against the back of the armchair, and for a moment his eyelids fluttered. Was he tired, then? Had he not rested enough? He and Meg had arrived together early in the morning already, and expecting to be on their way again soon after, yet Christine had persuaded them to stay for breakfast and to rest for a moment before they went. Well, at least the Phantom had stayed for breakfast, but Raoul doubted he would find any rest. In the same situation, he would probably not have himself. After all, it was Créon they were hoping to confront today…

Créon. That reminded him. "I think Créon knows that meaning of the word," he said. "Because his own name is Greek as well. It means –"

"He who rules," the Phantom interrupted. "That much I know." For a moment he paused, gazing at nothing at all. "Yes, kid, you might be right." Yes, he must indeed feel sorry for his behaviour a little earlier on. "Maybe this really is where he got the name from, because it surely was him who made all that up. Who else would have? Yet he told me he would write out my fate for me, just as if that name means that they – we – have none at all."

"Because he thinks he is their ruler." Raoul nodded. "Makes perfect sense." He swallowed. Should he give it a try now? It might be quite a good time, actually, since the Phantom apparently had a bad conscience already… "What kind of story is that, those things they try to convince you of?" Of course he already knew what it was about; Christine had told him. But he wanted to hear it from the Phantom himself.

"Madness," the Phantom answered fiercely. "And filthy lies."

"Yes," Raoul hastily assured him, "I wouldn't believe them. But why does Créon assume you would?"

For several seconds the Phantom did not say anything, yet his features were grim as he leaned forward and raked both hands through his hair, his elbows resting on his knees. Then he said, very softly, "He's a skilled manipulator. Trust me to that."

Clearly he was avoiding the question. But why? Raoul wondered. The way he had denied those stories' truth so vehemently, but now would not truly answer… did he believe it after all, or at least part of it? Raoul was certain that he would never believe anything like that himself, but what about the Phantom? He had been mad from the very beginning, hadn't he? So was he not more likely to believe in such stories, then?

Had Christine assured him it all was not true? Had Meg, if she had ever spoken about this with him? Somehow Raoul assumed she had, since those two seemed to be very close, from the way they acted. That quiet understanding between them… could it be that they really were lovers? Yes, they probably were, Raoul had suspected so before. But he had not yet asked Christine's opinion on the matter, it occurred to him. He probably should. Christine would certainly know better than he did; after all, she knew those two considerably better than he did. And would she feel the same about it, a little worried for Meg, but glad the Phantom had found somebody else to occupy himself with? He would have to ask.

The door was pushed open, and the girls slipped in, both in men's clothes again, and both with the excitement showing on their faces, their cheeks flushed, their eyes shining. That they still could be as excited about it all, after what they had witnessed, surprised Raoul somewhat, but it was better than the two of them clinging to each other in terror.

Or was it? He would certainly worry less if they stayed behind. Not only were they girls, but also much too young for anything of that kind.

Christine came towards him immediately, wrapping her arms around his waist and beaming up at him, and he held her tight, overcome with love towards her once more. From the corner of his eye he saw how Meg, after a moment of hesitation, climbed the Phantom's lap, but for now, nothing apart from Christine held any interest for him. She made his pulse race and his knees feel wobbly, and the scent of her soft, dark tresses produced the same warm feeling of joy in him that once the smell of the Christmas tree had given him, many years ago.

"My love," Christine murmured to him, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "You're not sulking now, are you?" And then she let him hear her charming little giggle again.

"Not when you're so close to me," he answered truthfully.

"Oh, that's good. Because Erik must be sulking something _dreadfully_."

Upon her words, they both turned to the armchair to see the Phantom's expression, yet there was not much to see currently, as he and Meg were quite busy kissing. For a moment Raoul just stared – yes, of course he could have guessed, but that they would show it _that_ openly! – then he turned his head to look at Christine. Their eyes met, and simultaneously they burst into soft, merry laughter at each other's surprised, irritated expression.

"Meg claims she's not in love with him," Christine whispered, "but she's more than a bit crazy about him, if you ask me."

"Looks like it," Raoul agreed in an equally soft voice. "She seems quite smitten. I don't know about him, though."

"Oh, he certainly seems to be enjoying himself." Christine giggled again, then sighed, suddenly serious again. "But he's still in love with me, I'm afraid."

Hearing the hint of sadness in her voice, Raoul briefly kissed her cheek. "I hope he'll come off it, now he's got her to run after."

Again Christine sighed, nuzzling her face against the side of Raoul's neck, but her answer was incomprehensible. Did it bother her, seeing Meg like that? Was she worried about her friend? Or was she jealous maybe?

No, Raoul told himself, it was he who was being jealous, not her. He tried not to suspect her of loving the Phantom, but still he did, whatever he told himself. His doubts, his hated doubts were like maggots, greedily gnawing at his consciousness. And whatever he did, he could not crush them. The harder he tried, the deeper they bored into his flesh.

He wished for this all to be over, in whatever way. Just over. And then, that he would never have to see the Phantom again. Never.

And that the Phantom found his luck somewhere else, far away. After all they had been through together by now, he realized, and after the insight he had gained into what the Phantom felt, however brief and shallow his glimpse might have been, he would not just turn him over to the police, risking him to be executed. He could not. He knew that this was the right thing, the just thing to do, but he could not. It would feel like betraying a companion at arms.

And then, as he stood there with Christine in his arms, but with his mind elsewhere, tormenting himself with his own doubts, he suddenly understood what his fiancée must have felt before the performance of _Don Juan_, apart from fear, and he hated himself for making her go through this, for making her choose. Maybe he should have stood back. Maybe he should have left her to another man. It would not saved her the fear, but at least that tearing pain in the chest, and the feeling of guilt. Maybe he should have left her to the Phantom.

Pulling Christine as close to him as he could, he bit his trembling lower lip, fighting against the sudden tightness in his chest. Still she was with him, in his arms, but the darkness was there, the darkness from his dreams, the darkness against which there was no barrier, and Christine was turning her head again, turning towards the darkness with a strange longing in her eyes, and he felt she was drifting away from him, towards the gentle darkness into which he could not follow…

He drew a shuddering breath, but his throat felt so constricted that it hardly reached his lungs. Would he have to share the Phantom's dark fate in the end? Would he be fateless, instead of him?

From the corner of his eye, he saw both the Phantom and Meg, embracing each other in the armchair, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. And suddenly he could not bear it any longer to look at them, to see Meg's golden hair. Would he ever be able to settle for second-best?

My God, don't make me say good-bye…


	73. IV The Point of no Return

**IV. The Point of no Return**

They were all waiting for them, Gaston and Serge, Xavier, Marie and Leclair. Hulot's death had not been enough to deter them. Especially Gaston seemed grieved still, yet all the same it appeared to Christine that his determination was even stronger than that of the rest. "He died in the Lord Phantom's service," he said with tears in his eyes, yet in a surprisingly firm voice. "And so will I, if this is to be my fate." Astonished at so much calm in the face of death, Christine wondered whether this was not just an after-effect of having to watch one of his friends die, but she herself could not tell, and there was no time for consulting a doctor, not even the one the Opera House employed for all the injuries and similar permanently occurring.

There was time for nothing at all, come to think of it. Yet it was not because this needed to be completed as fast as possible, she was sure, but because the Phantom wanted it to, and because Raoul seconded this strongly. They were both eager to be done with everything as soon as they could, and Christine thought she understood, though none of them named reasons.

Raoul seemed to act a little strangely, she observed, as they once more descended into the deepest cellars. Again she was bringing up the rear together with her fiancé, and she watched him from the side while they went. His jaw seemed clenched as he stared straight ahead, always at the Phantom, his knuckles white from clutching the torch he was carrying. From time to time, his eyes flickered over to her nervously, as if fearing she might dissolve into a wisp of smoke any moment, but whenever their eyes met, he hastily looked away, lowered his gaze to the floor or fixed the Phantom again, at the head of the column. What was wrong with him? It was not just that he was worried about her, she suspected, because he had been worried about her before. There was something more now. And he was afraid, she noticed with unease, as she saw perspiration form along his hairline despite the cold down in the cellars. As they reached the last corridor to the lair finally, drops of sweat were already running down over his forehead, and he was using his sleeve to wipe them away. For the fourth time she whispered to him to tell her what was wrong with him, but like all the times before, he just looked at her with sadness in his eyes and shook his head. God, what was wrong with him? And why wouldn't he tell her? Did he not trust her enough?

Did he not love her enough? Something in her chest constricted painfully at the thought.

At the place where usually the boat was moored, the Phantom came to a halt, and so did the others. As once before, when she had first come down here, Christine thought to see a thin veil of mist rise from the surface of the cold water, even though she told herself that it was not there. She knew why she had thought to see mist then, at that time when he was exerting his power over her.

It was months ago now, and it seemed to have happened in a happier age, so far away.

Like the day before, they all crowded around the Phantom, only that this time Hulot was missing. Who of their number would be missing this time, she wondered, shuddering, when they would return from those dungeons? When this all would be over, whose tomb would the vaults of the Opera House be? They had brought Hulot's body back up, yes, and yet it seemed to Christine that somehow he was still here, part of his spirit lingering in those deepest, darkest recesses of the cellars.

The Phantom spoke softly, and yet his voice rang out clearly over the water. Or was Christine just imagining it? "We've reached the end of our way now," he said, "and the final battle is at hand. Now is still the time to turn back, and nobody will force you if you do not wish to go any further. Those who choose to return rather than to go on should do this now, as it is your last chance."

For a moment there was silence, then Serge said quietly, one hand on Gaston's shoulder, "We have come this far. We will not turn back."

There was a murmur of assent from the others.

"There is nothing shameful about turning back," the Phantom continued. "This battle is mine, and neither of you has the means to fight Créon."

"But we can fight the gypsies," Leclair said.

"And we can act as decoys," Xavier provided eagerly. Obviously Raoul's performance the day before had impressed him mightily, Christine thought with a little smile at her long-time colleague. He did not understand any of this, she was sure, but he wanted to be part of it.

"I won't be turned back," Meg said firmly. "And if you think you can scare me, you've picked the wrong one."

"And I still haven't gotten to fighting those promised women," Marie put in with a nervous little laugh.

"This battle has become mine as much as yours," Raoul spoke up, and Christine was surprised and a little shocked at the strangely pressed sound his voice had suddenly acquired.

"I will go with you until the end, my Lord Phantom," Gaston promised. "Wherever you may lead me, I will follow."

Again silence fell, and Christine realized that she was the only one who had not spoken yet. "I will go with you," she said simply.

Beside her, Raoul made a little choking noise, but when she turned to look at him, his features remained immobile, his eyes firmly on the Phantom, and she assumed that she might have only imagined it.

The Phantom inclined his head slightly in acceptance. "So be it. You have passed the point of no return, then." And he turned to lead the way once more, through the shallow water and into the passage leading along the flooded corridor.

Hearing this gave Christine a little jolt, despite herself. She remembered only to clearly standing on stage with him – good Lord, could it truly just have been five days since? –, paralyzed at his suddenly appearance and with no idea what to do, no idea but to go on. And then he had taken her down here, not as reverently as the first time, but roughly dragging her with him, overcome by rage and pain… It was not a pleasant memory at all.

And still the melody of this particular duet intrigued her, woke feelings in her she had hardly known she possessed…

No, she should not think such a thing. Not here and now, not anywhere.

As they covered the last distance to the Phantom's dwelling, Christine slipped her hand into Raoul's, squeezing it tightly. He would remember just as well now, and for him, there would be nothing intriguing. Only the memory of fear and pain.

And for the Phantom? Christine wondered. At the back of her head, there was determination, a calm, deadly determination, ruling over wrath and hatred. And there was love, the thought of a vain, bitter love, a love not returned…

It was a memory that hurt them all.


	74. V Angel in Hell

**V. Angel in Hell**

Side by side with Xavier, Meg arrived at the entrance to the place the Phantom called his home. Depositing her flickering torch in an iron halter on the wall obviously meant for that purpose, she watched as the portcullis barring their way slowly, majestically rose out of the knee-deep water. Surely the Phantom had just activated it, but how? She had completely missed that, and it annoyed her that she had; she would have liked to know how to raise it.

"Amazing," Marie murmured at Xavier's other side, clearly awestruck. "Did he construct that himself?"

Xavier shrugged. "I guess so," Meg replied in his place.

Was this really going to be the final confrontation? Meg hoped so, and that it would be over quickly. And that they would win, of course.

The Phantom's hand brushed against her cheek briefly. "Excited, piglet?" he asked her softly, smiling beneath his black mask.

"_Piglet_?" Meg repeated, indignant. "Why do you call me a piglet?"

His smile turned into one of his little smirks she knew so well. "That's what I called you when you were small, because you were all nice and rosy." His grin broadened for a moment. "And because you spread gooey stuff over my clothes whenever I tried to feed you, to be exact."

"All your own fault," Meg retorted. "Why did you try to feed me gooey stuff in the first place?" And her mother had never told her that he seemed to have occasionally shown interest in her when she had still been a baby.

Marie giggled cheerfully, joined by Xavier. "Piglet?"

"Yes," Meg sighed, rolling her eyes, "he's being such a charmer again." Hopefully she would not remain stuck with that silly nickname now!

"He actually _fed_ you?" Marie asked.

Meg shrugged. How should she know, for Heaven's sake? "Ask him, not me," she replied, and because it came out in an overly grumbling tone, she added, "I'd have liked to watch him feed me, though."

But the Phantom had already turned to Gaston and Serge, seemingly dissuading Gaston from charging straight down into their enemies' encampment, by the sound of it. By now, he probably regretted having ever mentioned feeding Meg as a baby. It just did not fit with his dignity as the Opera Ghost.

Strange that she should kiss the man who had looked after her when she was an infant! Any other man would be too old for her by far now, she guessed, yet it was different with him. He did not seem so much older.

As if Xavier had heard her thoughts, he asked in a whisper, leaning towards her, "Do you have any idea how old he is?"

"Not exactly," Meg answered truthfully, yet left out that the Phantom did not know it himself. "But he's quite a bit older than he looks."

After a glance over her shoulder to see if the Phantom was still busy with the two stagehands, Marie confided, winking at her, "He's rather sweet, don't you think?"

Xavier cleared his throat audibly, but Marie ignored him.

Meg feared that a traitorous blush crept onto her cheeks as she recalled the past night she had spent snuggling with him. But what he had come for first… "He can be, if he wants to," she said carefully.

"Oh, really?" the Phantom put in lazily over his shoulder before he continued to point out to Gaston why exactly the idea of just walking into the middle of the gypsy bodyguards and starting to slaughter them was a bad idea.

Meg sighed. "And he hears everything, it seems."

By the flickering light of their torches, she could not be sure, but it seemed that it was Marie who was blushing now.

"But can we at least have a battle cry?" Gaston was just asking. "Something rousing, and something to do with you, my Lord."

And immediately an idea popped up in Meg's head, and she could not help but grin broadly. Take that for the piglet! "_Give me freedom, or give me broccoli_," she suggested innocently.

Gaston frowned at her. "Broccoli?"

"Broccoli?" Leclair repeated, irritated.

Christine started to giggle suddenly.

"Ah, I know," Raoul said, and Meg was glad that the grim expression he was wearing softened a little. "Are you referring to that Carlotta joke from recently? But you haven't explained it yet."

Meg winked at him and poked her tongue out at the Phantom. Piglet, indeed!

"A Carlotta joke?" Xavier asked immediately. "Can I hear it?" He hated Carlotta with passion, Meg knew that, ever since she had called him a stupid little boy once in front of the entire ballet because he had laughed at her acting.

"Why, sure," Meg grinned and wanted to launch into the story immediately.

Yet the Phantom was faster than her. "But not here," he said firmly. "Come on, in you go. All of you."

A little reluctantly, they all moved towards the entrance. Meg left her torch where it was, since the lair was still brightly lit by many candles. Créon was indeed expecting them, it seemed. Meg shuddered slightly at the idea, and there was an unpleasant prickling deep inside her stomach.

Gaston passed beneath the arch very slowly, she saw, and with his head lowered. Only yesterday, Hulot had died here.

And she might die as well. Suddenly an icy hand gripped her insides.

No, she told herself, no, she would not. She was not going to die. The Phantom was here to take care of her. And she had his sabre. Nothing was going to happen to her. Nothing.

Still, it seemed to her that her heartbeat had increased considerably. And there was a prickling feeling in her chest, a knot in her stomach… Yesterday she had felt better, as if nothing could happen to her, but now, knowing that one of them had died…

She kept close to Marie and Xavier; their proximity offered a little comfort. What were they feeling? Were they not afraid? And how did the Phantom feel, she wondered. And what about Raoul? They were so brave, those two, so fearless. Nothing could scare them.

Or why were Raoul's features so gloomy? Was he afraid, too?

It was going to be Créon they would face this time. The Master of the Lost Ones. The most powerful of all.

Wading out of the shallow water and onto the shore, Meg felt utterly miserable. How she wished she could just curl up into a ball and hide in her bed, under her blanket, and with her mother and Christine and the Phantom to comfort her and hold her hands – well, only two of them could hold her hands, so the Phantom could… stroke her hair, yes. This made her smile a little, but still the sickly feeling would not go away.

"And now," the Phantom said, once they all were huddling together between the organ and the stairs up to his bedroom, "there is only one thing to do for you: You wait."

"Wait?" Raoul asked, surprised. "You haven't been changing the plan, have you?"

"Not exactly," was the rather cryptical reply. "I'm abandoning my mind's defences right now. This will call Créon to us. Except – No, never mind." He sat down on the stairs. "Meg, come here."

As she sat down beside him, he immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders. However he did it, he clearly knew what was wrong. "Don't be afraid, little one," he whispered to her. "Nothing can harm you as long as I'm with you."

Resting her head against his shoulder, Meg felt a little bit better already, and then she felt a strange, comfortable warmth, a warmth she could only feel in her mind, and slowly her fear was forced backwards, out of her consciousness, and all that was left was a slight feeling of unease. If this was what having her mind tampered with felt like, it was immensely enjoyable.

Xavier and Christine came to sit near her, Christine close to the bottom of the stairs and with Raoul standing nearby, with his back to the wall, and after some time, Marie followed, then Leclair. Gaston and Serge remained standing, Gaston with his thumbs hooked into his belt – only to prevent his hands from shaking, Meg suspected. Serge seemed calm, yet she was not sure what he really felt like. His eyes appeared dark in the dim light.

"Very well, let's wait, then," Raoul said, already rummaging in his pocket. "Cigarette, anyone?"

Christine looked up and directed a frown at him. "I thought you didn't smoke," she reminded him.

"Yes, but somebody has to smoke all the cigarettes my father gives me in my stead, you see." Raoul produced a silver cigarette case and scowled at it. "Ghost, buddy, do you smoke, by any chance?"

If the Phantom was surprised by being addressed like that, he did not show it, and neither could Meg see if it annoyed him or not. "No, I don't."

Raoul looked almost crestfallen.

Leclair hesitantly raised a hand. "Monsieur, if you can perhaps miss one –"

"Certainly," Raoul said, handing over the case. "And it's just Raoul to you. Here, I found the matches."

"Thanks. With your permission, my Lord Phantom?"

"Very well. We can make an exception today." The Phantom watched Raoul with some amusement as he offered his cigarettes to Xavier, who declined. "They make you sick, kid, do they?"

"Yes, a little," Raoul admitted. "And I don't like the taste much. But my father is awful in that aspect, he has a cigar after dinner at least every second day. You two, how about you?"

Gaston and Serge accepted and took one each, which Raoul seemed to find delighting. Of course, getting rid of three of those things at once probably was a success for him. Meg had never tried smoking herself, but she did not appreciate the smell of smoke too much, so she had never felt inclined to try.

"Say, can I have one, too?" Marie suddenly asked, and as everybody except the Phantom looked at her in surprise, she said, almost defiantly, "Who says a woman can't smoke?"

"Not me, for that matter," Raoul laughed. Now he was getting rid of his cigarettes, he seemed a little more cheerful than earlier on, when his features had been unusually dark and brooding.

"I never realized you did," said Xavier, sounding slightly irritated.

Marie waved it away. "Rarely, but from time to time I do. And don't go telling me women don't smoke."

Xavier shrugged. "However you like." And he threw Meg one of his usual puzzled looks, which Meg answered with one of her own. Neither had she realized nor expected this. But it was Marie's business, not hers – though her mother might make a snide remark about it if she ever found out.

Sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, the Phantom looked not much different from the others, actually, Meg thought, apart from his black mask, of course. He was dressed in the same way, too, in simple black trousers and a matching shirt he had tucked into the trousers loosely. Maybe he could be like all of them if he just got used to it? But no, he would not want to try to be like one of them. He probably was too proud.

Oh, he and his silly pride! Yet Meg thought so with fondness; she would not forget that quickly how he had just chased away her fear.

"Now," Raoul spoke up again, pocketing his cigarette case, his brow creased in grim determination, "can we go through the plan once again? We wait here for Créon to show up, and he is bound to since Erik – right, sorry, the Phantom – stopped shielding his head from him, and then…?"

"We kill all the dirty-blooded gypsies he brings," Leclair suggested. There was a sharp edge to his voice now which Meg had not noticed before. And that he would speak of killing so easily… They all had changed, every single one of them. Yesterday's combat had been a baptism of blood for all of them.

Not that she had yet killed anyone herself. She had wounded that one yesterday, yes, but she had not killed him. Raoul had done that, with his face serious like concentrating on his work. Of course, Raoul was a soldier, he was a lieutenant in the navy. But he had never seen action yet, as far as she knew. Still, did killing come easier to him? She could not say.

And Gaston and Serge had killed one gypsy each, Serge with his usual calm expression and wielding his axe as if chopping wood, Gaston with his face contorted into a grimace and with a cry of mad rage, immediately after he had been forced to witness his friend Hulot receiving a mortal wound. What had been going on in their heads while they had done so? What had they felt like? And how did they feel about it now? Did the world look different for them after they had spilled blood, however justified they might have been?

And the Phantom… He felled men as easily and lazily as her mother passed out criticism at rehearsals. It just seemed to come natural to him. And yet Meg knew that he, too, had a heart, that he could be frightened and vulnerable at times… Down here he was cold and hard, but when he was alone with her, he was very gentle and tender. How could a man have two so very different sides?

The same way he had two different faces, probably, it occurred to her suddenly, one handsome, the other covered in scars. Did his face reflect his nature, then?

_A fallen angel, and far from Heaven…_

This all passed through her head in a few moments, and yet it seemed to her that she had spent at least several minutes thinking about it all. "No," the Phantom said slowly, waking her from her ruminations, "there might be a change of plans."

"A change –" Raoul was clearly startled. "What do you mean? I thought you weren't going to, or at least not exactly."

"That we do not have to do this. That I do not have to risk your lives and use you as baits." As he spoke, the Phantom rose to his feet, and Meg had to keep herself from tugging at his trousers to make him sit back down next to her. "It's not you Créon wants. It's me. He will kill you to hurt me, if he can, but he does not want you. This is not your battle any longer."

"This is my battle as long as it's yours," Raoul retorted hotly, then probably realized what it was he had just said, because his jaw dropped slightly as an expression of confusion passed over his face briefly, to be replaced by determination once more.

"This is not your battle, kid," the Phantom replied quietly, seriously, and his tone seemed almost solemn to Meg. "It's mine alone." He passed his left hand over the dagger he had additionally buckled to his belt, apart from the one he wore there regularly, caressing its serpent-decorated hilt – it was the one he had taken from Adhemar. "It never should have been anything else but mine."

"We couldn't have let you fight alone," Raoul protested.

"But you should have. This way, if not for me, Jean Hulot would still be alive." He pressed his lips together briefly, like in bitterness, then repeated, "You should have."

Raoul drew a deep breath. "Hulot died because he chose to. He made the decision to help you, like we others did, of his own free will. He knew the risk, and he still came. Like all of us."

"Then I should not have let him!" the Phantom practically exclaimed. "I should not have let any of you! I was responsible for that man, and I failed to protect him. It's all my fault!"

"No, it's not. It's the fault of the man who killed him, no one else's."

"Of course it is!" the Phantom snarled, making Gaston recoil slightly as he leapt off the stairs and landed between him and Serge. "I could have killed the man. Damn him for all of eternity, I almost did! But then I went to fight Adhemar, and I let Hulot die."

"No, it's not," Raoul insisted. "And if it were anyone's, it would be mine, because I came to join him and Christine and Gaston as you confronted Adhemar, remember? I did my best, and still I could not prevent it."

"It's really not your fault, Erik," Christine added quietly.

"We don't blame you, my Lord," said Gaston.

"But I do," the Phantom muttered bitterly. "And that's enough for me."

Meg wanted to say something, too, to comfort him in any way, but there was nothing coming to her mind, and she could not just go and hug him tightly with everybody watching. Well, a short time ago she had been kissing him in company, but that had only been Christine and Raoul, then, and they would understand, whereas all the others here… No, she really was not to supposed to snuggle in public. And she could not just tell him that she was proud of him for his noble sentiments, as she felt, because he would probably consider that ridiculous, if not highly annoying.

Luckily Raoul still found something to say. "You should not. This is a death you're really not responsible for." Was there a mild reproach hidden behind this, or was his wording not intentional? Obviously the Phantom wondered about the same, because his frown became a glare. "This has become a war in its own right. And in a war, people die. And nobody can keep them from dying."

"Hulot was no soldier."

"No," Serge said, gently and quietly, "but he decided to make it his own war. As we all did."

"Not even the best officer can prevent his men from dying," Raoul continued. "Even if he takes all precautions possible, some will still fall victim to the enemy. I'm a lieutenant of the navy myself, but there was nothing I could do."

"Lord Raoul is our lieutenant as well," Gaston put in, taking the cigarette from his mouth, but still blowing out thin wisps of smoke as he spoke. Meg watched them as they rose, curling in strange patterns, until they dissolved and faded away into the shadows. "And neither of you two, my Lord Phantom, neither him nor you, our captain, is to blame for my friend's death." His voice trembled as he said it, with the grief so fresh and raw on his mind, but his resolution was firm. "I would never blame either of you."

"I'm no lord, Gaston," Raoul said, smiling, "but you are certainly right about the rest. And if you lose one of the men, you rather blame the lieutenant than the captain, if there is no sergeant who can take the blame."

"Marie can be our sergeant," Xavier said suddenly. "She bosses me around quite enough."

This broke the tension, and everybody laughed, including Marie, glad to have something to laugh about in such a serious situation. Even the Phantom smiled weakly. But soon the shadow returned to his face. "I honour your loyalty, all of you, but I'm unwilling to sacrifice you when there is no need to. You have a life, all of you. Go back to it, and may you continue living it in peace. Whereas I have none, and I have nothing to lose. And it's me Créon wants."

Heavens, did he really have to talk like that? "Of course you have one, silly," Meg cried before she could stop yourself, "if you only realized you had! There are several people around who like you a great deal. Christine likes you enough for Raoul to be jealous, for Heaven's sake! And I like you, too, in case you have not noticed it yet." She was talking nonsense, she realized, and he was not going to be pleased with her. Feeling the blush wandering over her cheeks, she continued, "You can't just send us back to our lives, because you have already become part of them, and I for one don't want you to just walk out of it." No, it was just not convincing enough. What else could she tell him? "I love you like I would love my own brother, Erik," she ploughed on, trying to ignore all the others who were listening. "And if anything were to happen to you, I would miss you so much." Finding nothing more to say, she fell silent, embarrassed at herself, at how she could not hold her tongue. This must have sounded completely idiotic, and certainly he had not liked it at all!

But instead of snarling at her, he smiled. "You're a little darling, piglet," he said, teasingly, yet tenderly.

"And don't call me piglet, you great hairy baboon!" she blurted out, then bit her tongue with annoyance at herself. Could she not even control her temper in this situation? "Sorry," she muttered, ashamed.

He waved it away, his smile broadening. "Nothing to be sorry about. Your temper is just like your mother's, so very amusing." For a moment, Meg thought to catch a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, which, incidentally, seemed to have a greenish sheen in this light. Now did they have it really, or was she just imagining things? God, she did not want to lose him, and if just to find out what colour his eyes really were! "And you have her kind heart as well, to offer love to someone who does not deserve it." Then his face turned serious once more. "But I really ought to be going now. I can feel Créon, and I know he can feel me, too. It can't be long before he sends his henchmen."

"You should not go alone, Erik." This time it was Christine.

"Take me with you," Raoul said.

"If you don't want to take me," Gaston added, nodding towards the young vicomte, "then you should at least take your friend."

The Phantom shook his head, scowling at the word _friend_. "This last bit of the way I will have to go alone. You have accompanied me so far, but this is the end. You don't have to come anymore."

Raoul sighed audibly and rolled his eyes. "Where do you intend to go, anyway, and why? Will Créon not come here, sooner or later?"

"Maybe, but not that soon. Believe me, he would let us wait for a long time, if he came at all. He wants me to come to him. He believes I will come to him. So I will do this, and then I will find the best opportunity to strike." The Phantom's eyes seemed to shine in the darkness. "If I come to him, Créon is due to believe in his victory, and he is bound to become overconfident. I can make use of that."

Meg saw how Raoul and Christine exchanged a brief glance. "That last one was certainly a proper reason," Raoul commented, "but as far as the rest is concerned, you'll have to do better than this to get rid of me, buddy. I'm going with you whatever you say, except you tie me up and leave me here, and even then I'll find a way to crawl after you."

At first the Phantom's expression remained blank, but then a smile appeared upon his features. "Well spoken, kid. But I need you to take care of Christine in case I don't come back."

"Don't say that," Christine protested, at the same time as Raoul said, "You _will_ come back. And you'll be in for endless trouble if you don't." Suddenly he grinned lopsidedly, nudging the Phantom in the shoulder. "Hey, I'm afraid you'll come back."

And surely enough, the Phantom's usual little smirk twisted his lips, and he nudged Raoul right back. "I _will_ return, and if only to annoy you."

Christine beamed at the pair of them, and Meg also felt the corners of her mouth shift into a smile. So they managed to get along together after all.

"At least allow me to follow and remain in the background," Raoul continued. "I do not like the idea of us splitting up too much, in case those gypsy thugs attack again."

Meg's fingers clenched around the sabre hilt.

For a moment the Phantom considered this, then he nodded. "Very well. But follow with some delay. If you come too early, Créon will send them immediately to deal with you. If not, I might manage to distract him enough to leave that scum where they are, hiding in their maggot-holes." He briefly scanned the small crowd of his followers. "I guess I can leave my lieutenant in charge here?"

There was a general murmur of assent.

"Good. And take good care of them, kid, or you'll hear from me."

Raoul gave him a mock salute. "Of course, my Captain."

The Phantom smirked. "I will get changed for the occasion, then." And he sauntered up the steps into his bedroom.

Meg wondered what he was up to. Getting changed? Surely he was not going to confront Créon in his evening dress? If she turned her head, she might see him, because she sat far enough along the slightly curved stair to see into the room, yet this would not be considered proper behaviour, so she did not do so. Raoul, Gaston and Serge could not see him from where they stood, so they all would be in for a surprise.

God, she only hoped he wasn't going to do anything stupid!

Soon enough – they had not waited in taut silence for long – he reappeared, and Meg was sure her jaw dropped as she saw him sauntering down the steps. He was wearing the Red Death costume in which he had appeared at the masked ball on New Year's Eve, complete with the matching mask.

Gaston and Serge, who had not seen him like this before, just stared, and Raoul raised his eyebrows. "Going to gatecrash another party, are you?"

The Phantom just grinned at this. "I hope Créon's little party will be over when I appear. No, seriously, kid, much depends on the way you do something. So while I go about to finish off Créon, I might at least do it with style."

"You might have told us earlier on," said Leclair, who, like the stagehands, was admiring the costume for the first time. "And we might have put on something matching that."

"Just plain black will do, don't worry. Oh, Meg, for reasons of style I must demand my sabre back. How about Adhemar's dagger in exchange? And the rest of you… you can take the bow from the bedroom if you have any idea how to handle it."

Reluctant to part with the weapon though she was, Meg unfastened the belt and handed it over straight away and without complaining. Of course she felt safer when she had it, but he would need it more than her now. "Can I have yours?" she asked.

"Sure," he said, unbuckling his dagger belt. "Why?"

Meg grinned at him. "For reasons of style?"

He unfastened Adhemar's dagger from where it was currently and hooked it to the sabre belt, then threw her the one with his own dagger. "There you are, then. And hold your chin high while you wear it, mind you."

Meg beamed. "No problem." Now he had freed her of her fear, she almost felt cheerful.

"Have an eye on her, kid."

"I will," Raoul promised. "On all of them."

"Well, woe betide you if not, to quote our favourite ballet instructor." Meg, Christine, Marie and Xavier giggled at that, since they knew this quote only too well, and the Phantom winked at Meg, straightening his belt. "I'm afraid that stupid belt buckle keeps moving around," he confessed.

"Yes," said Raoul, grinning, "it was all lopsided when you came to the masked ball."

"Was it? Damn. Now listen here, kid: Christine will be able to tell you when to follow. Go carefully, and don't draw attention to yourselves. And whatever happens, don't try to interfere. Rather run to save your necks.

"Oh, and Christine…" Still tugging at the sabre belt, he knelt down before her, so he could look her in the eyes. "Listen, in case I don't come back – no, don't comment on it this time, kid – there's something I want you to know. You don't have anyone to get a dowry from, so I think it's up to me to provide it. Just look under the organ bench. There is a rather large secret compartment hidden there. You'll have to press the point where the ledge is a little broader, and it'll spring open. It's easy enough to find when you know what to look for. And as for the rest, it's all yours, if you find any use for it. And in case you go looking for the ring, it's in my pocket. I should leave it here for you, I know, but carrying it around in my pocket has become a habit by now. Everything understood?"

As he wanted to get up again, Christine suddenly threw her arms around his neck. "Take care, Erik," she pleaded. "And come back safely. That's the only thing I want from you."

"I'll do my best." Rising to his feet, he hesitated, then knelt down once again. "What was that? What you were just thinking?"

So he was mind-reading again, was he? Meg was not surprised to see Raoul direct a frown at him.

"I love you, Erik," Christine said simply.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Raoul, yet the Phantom did not heed him. "But in a different way, isn't it?" Was it sadness in his voice? Great tenderness, but sadness? Meg could not quite tell.

"Yes. In a different way. But I still love you."

He gently brushed a strand of hair out of her face, threading his fingers into her dark curls. "Well then… with your permission…" Their lips met very briefly, then he rose to his feet at last. "Right… I guess I'll be going then." Suddenly he sounded rather awkward. "I suppose I'll… I'll just see you all later."

"Take care," Meg told him, too, but he did not respond to that. With a little bow, complete with a flourish of the cloak he wore loosely over one shoulder, he turned and made his way to the side entrance of his dwelling. There he turned one last time and looked at them all, and despite the distance Meg thought to see a gleam in his eyes that had not been there before. Christine had given him courage, courage to battle all enemies, courage to pass through Hell. Then he turned once more and vanished out of view, into the darkness.


	75. VI Man and Mystery

**VI. Man and Mystery**

_She let me kiss her._

There was only one thought on the Phantom's mind as he strode towards the place where he knew Créon was awaiting him. He did not see the dust, the cobwebs and the puddles of water on his way anymore, for to him his path became the corridors of a palace, and there was golden light instead of lingering shadows.

_She let me kiss her._

It had only been a very brief kiss, but still, it had been a kiss, and she had even answered it. And how she had pulled him to her suddenly, so close it was intoxicating, and how tenderly she had spoken to him…

Hell, how he loved her.

She had pledged her love to him as well, and it had filled him with incredible joy at the same time as it had given him a sharp stab through the heart, because he knew that she did not love him in the way he loved her, and he feared that she never would. But still, she loved him. _She loved him._ There was nothing in the world of any importance beside this glorious thought.

But there should be. Créon, he reminded himself. He was about to finish Créon for once and for all.

And how could he not, when Christine loved him, when she had kissed him? There was nothing he could not do. Every obstacle, every barrier must fall away, he felt, at the mere memory of her sweet, beloved voice, this memory which washed away all the pain and darkness: _I love you, Erik._

No, Erik was not dead yet. Not yet. _So do I, Christine. I truly, deeply love you._

He could feel her presence in his head, radiant as the sun. _I love you_, he murmured to her, and he knew he would never grow tired of repeating it for her, thousands, millions of times.

Her answer was a wave of gentle warmth washing through all his limbs. _I know_, she whispered to him simply, for the first time caressing his awareness as she said so, and for the first time he felt her mental touch pass over him, through his hair, then down along the sides of his neck, and over his chest and shoulders. Never before had he realized that it practically was a physical sensation. Never before had anyone touched him in the way she just had.

_I love you, Christine. I love you._

There was something else, though, filling his consciousness more with every step he took: The threads of darkness were there still, a web of shadows enshrouding him. Yet he was not afraid. He would never be afraid again. The threads touched him, brushed over him, tried to attach themselves to him and wriggle their way into his mind, yet without a conscious thought he let every single one that tried burn, a brief glow in the shadows, swiftly fading into darkness again as the threads dissolved into ashes.

He would never be afraid again.

Because there was Christine, and there was him. There were the two of them, just the two of them. And nobody, not even Créon, could get between them anymore.

With wonder, he felt a smooth, sheer wall erect itself in his mind, a wall surrounding it, encircling it, and yet again not. It was hard to say where it really was, and what it was; all he knew was that it was around Christine and him, encompassing them and their love.

Their love. It seemed to him that his heart missed a beat. Their love…

No, Créon would never again succeed in getting between them. Never again.

Créon would never be in his way again.

Without thinking, he briefly closed his eyes, extending his mental feelers, and then sending them on, out into the darkness. He felt how they travelled and explored, how they crisscrossed and entwined, how they came alive and filled him with sensations. At once he was aware of the entire cellar level, and he knew that he could extend his range to the entire Opera House if he only wanted to. He could feel Créon and his servants, concentrated in one spot, though part of them seemed to be somewhere nearby, in small groups going about their business. He could feel his own companions, every single one of them, back at the place which had been his home for many, many years. And he could even feel the tiny specks of life which were rats and other creatures of his dark dungeons. He could feel everything.

And above the threads of darkness, there lay a new web now, woven of thin tongues of fire.

He almost stumbled as he realized what he had done. Had he just…? No, he could not have! Or could he? Hell, he could do it! He knew Créon's own trick now! These were his very own threads of darkness.

_I challenge you, Créon._ He felt his chest practically swell with pride. And _I'll send you to Hell._

As he continued on his way to the large underground hall, Créon's presence growing stronger with every step he took, he felt the trumpets wake in his head.

No, this Requiem will not be my own. Not yet.

When he reached the entrance to the hall at last, he was almost surprised to find everything as he had left it three days ago. Still the strange lantern's eerie red light spilled out into the corridor, casting an unearthly sheen over the pair of sculpted angels on the archway. Yet he only glanced at them as he passed beneath it, and he hardly paid any attention to the small flocks of servants scattering as he appeared beneath it. There were fewer than he remembered, he noticed, clearly fewer. Very dimly he was aware that he must look impressive in the red light, and garbed all in red as well. Maybe he truly seemed like Death taking visible shape to them. Yet all he really saw was Créon.

They faced each other across the hall, standing in solemn silence. It had begun now, the Phantom knew. This was the end. This was the final confrontation.

Somehow he wished Christine were there to watch, but then again, it was better when she stayed where she was currently. She was safer where she was.

Anyway, she was with him wherever he went, in his mind and heart.

And when she was with him, he could drain the deepest oceans and move the highest mountains.

It was Créon who spoke first, his deep voice resounding eerily through the hall, and it seemed that the flames on the braziers danced to its sound. "So you have come at last."

The Phantom regarded him calmly, his left hand resting on the hilt of his sabre, like Death himself who had come like a thief in the night to begin his final reign. As he answered, his voice filled the hall completely, coming from everywhere at once. "It is over, Créon."

"No," Créon replied, and suddenly it seemed that he was smiling. "It has just begun." Slowly, very slowly, he started towards the centre of the hall, and all of their own accord, the Phantom's feet began to move as well, carrying him towards the mightiest enemy he had ever faced, the heels of his high boots stirring up dust as he went. "And it always will. Once more the circle of ages is completed. Once more the light faces the darkness. And it will face it again and again as ages come and pass, until the circle is full-wrought for the last time, to whatever end." He laughed, a cold, cruel laugh. "And what a defender the light chose! The very man who cast the world of yore into the shadow! The very man who traded his fealty and loyalty for something he could never have! The oath-breaker, the traitor of his own blood!" Again his cold laughter rang through the twilit hall, washing over the cowering servants. "I bid you welcome, Lord Keeper of the Gates! You have grown strong in those few days. You are now ready to enter eternal night."

And this time, the Phantom found that Créon could taunt him as much as wanted with his mad stories, and he did not care. Not when there was Christine at the back of his head, watching over him. "You cannot write out my fate for me," he told him calmly. "I am not fateless." No, because he had his love. And because his love was a beacon that shone to him in his darkness. When Christine was with him, the shadow could not hold sway over him.

They were very close to each other now; mere feet separated them as they both came to a halt. Créon's one cold, bright eye met his, and there was fog swirling at the edge of his consciousness as his enemy spoke again. "You speak of what you do not know, for you do not yet remember. And yet something has come back to you, has it not? Or maybe more than something?" His elegant black eyebrows shifted briefly, wandering slightly upwards in mock astonishment. "Oh, so you have never wondered where all your skills and talents came from? The power of your mind, the sweet enchantment of your voice, the knowledge of many things you were never taught? You are not of the earthling kind, and you must know this."

"I know I'm different," the Phantom replied, meeting his gaze evenly. Créon would see the swirling mists just as well now. "And this is quite enough for me."

Again Créon's eyebrows shifted slightly. "And how do you feel about the markings you bear?"

The Phantom's gaze fell on the scar on Créon's features, across his bandage-covered right eye socket. Maybe Créon's disfigurement was a little worse than his. True, it seemed to be just one single blow with a sword that had caused it, but he missed an eye, whereas the Phantom still had both of those. "They are only scars," he said.

"So you do not crave to know the truth?"

"Sometimes it is better when the truth remains hidden." No, Créon's tales would have no power over him this way.

"Oh, how interesting," said Créon derisively, one corner of his mouth twitching into a grimace of disdain. "So you claim you do not even want to know that it was _you_ who gave me that wound?" And he pointed out the scar across the place where his eye should have been.

"No," the Phantom answered calmly. This was getting more ridiculous with every time Créon told him something! "I have not met you before."

"Say whatever you like, young Erik." Créon waved it all away with an impatient gesture of his long-fingered hand. "It will not change what was, and what will be."

"Our encounter is in the present, Créon," the Phantom reminded him. "There is no past and no future."

Instead of a reply, Créon laughed once again, despite the Phantom's glare, which could usually silence anyone. "Your denial will change nothing in the end. As well as it cannot change what you once did, millennia ago. Do you then think a man's old sins are forgiven when they are forgotten? Not everybody has forgotten them yet, and even if we all had, they would still be engraved deeply into the memory of the Eldest King on his throne beyond space and time. And you will never be redeemed, young Erik. Especially not you."

"I've heard enough of your stories," the Phantom interjected angrily.

"Oh, but perhaps you haven't. Some you might even appreciate. For example the one of how you defeated the Dragon-tamer once before." Créon gestured towards something in the proximity of his belt, yet the Phantom refused to break the eye contact. "You shot him out of the sky the last time, and his scaly mount smashed the Silver Fountain in the Garden of Blessing, I'm afraid to say. You always were good with your bow."

The dagger, it occurred to him suddenly. The serpent-engraved dagger.

_Adhemar._

"And your adventures with many a woman. You were never short of those who would readily share your lair, back in those days. Or all your adventures with that loyal handful who seemed to accompany you everywhere, your servants. Some of them were renowned heroes in their own right, only that they were of the mortal kind and nothing more. Your lieutenant – Tricur, wasn't it? – was a personal friend, it was said. Sadly, this did not keep you from murdering him in the end, because he knew too much about your dark machinations."

"This is not true!" the Phantom burst out, unable to control himself any longer. "Nothing of it is!" While Créon spoke, his voice had a certain attraction to it, making him listen even when he did not want to. But he did not believe any of this! Especially not the last, that he would kill a friend just because that friend knew too much…

_Oh, really?_, asked a nasty little voice in his head. _You never had too many scruples about killing people, now had you? You sometimes killed men you hardly even knew, and who would not have harmed you, come to that, don't you remember?_

No, he had to admit, he had certainly killed before, and sometimes when there was no need to exactly, yet that had nothing to do with Créon's story. Because Créon's stories were all filthy lies anyway, every single one of them.

Créon's cold eye glittered in the dim, unsteady light. "And maybe you would appreciate to remember our final confrontation, at the moment when your treason to both sides – to all the world – became clear. You won, then, and you extinguished the Eye of the Shadow at the moment you gave me this scar I shall forever be branded with, and you even cast me down over the ramparts you yourself had built, the mighty, glorious Pillars of Heaven. But of what use was it to you in the end? You had lost everything already. So even our duel was lost for you before it even began. And in the end, you cast yourself into the Ever-Burning Flame, thus becoming the first of our blood to die." He spoke in a whisper now, and the Phantom could easily have spoken over him, silencing him, but a strange spell claimed his tongue as he listened with something close to horrid fascination. "Yet of what use was that act of despair? For your spirit was still exiled with the rest of us, banished forever and with no hope of return to Heaven."

_A fallen angel, and far from Heaven._

No. No, Claire, no. You were wrong. Just wrong.

_An angel cast into Hell…_

Biting his lower lip fiercely, the Phantom forced himself to abandon this train of thought. "So you mean to tell me that you lost against me once before?" he sneered. "That does not prove too much confidence."

"Oh no, you foolish boy, you do not understand. Because the circumstances are different this time. The girl is still there, for example, not dead, as the last time. It was a mistake to listen to Niobe back in those days, I readily admit it. She was only jealous because she wanted you to love _her_, not petty little Aminta."

The Phantom had been preparing a sharp retort, yet his breath caught in his throat as he heard this. _Aminta._ A name which meant very much to him. How could Créon know, how could he possibly?

He must have been there, at the Opera House, on that fateful night. He must have seen _Don Juan_, or at least the little part of it that had been performed before Christine had taken his mask away – his chest still constricted at the memory. Créon must have been there. There was no other possible explanation.

Of course, impossible explanations could be found quite easily, and there were quite enough of them, all matching the stories Créon told him. All easily matching the stories, as if they were part of them…

"Oh, you know the name?" Créon asked. "Don't deny it; it's obvious enough. You do know the name."

"You were at the Opera on that night," the Phantom said, yet his voice sounded strained to his own ears.

"Was I? No, I wasn't. But Niobe was, and so was Aeternus, and all they told me was that it was very clearly you they had seen. The rest is of no interest to me."

It was a lie, curse the man! Nothing but a lie! "I don't care what you say," the Phantom snarled, determined now not to listen to Créon once again, not ever. "You can't prove any of it, anyway."

"Is that so, young Erik?" And suddenly Créon smiled again. "Well, maybe then I should let you see…" And with this, he reached up and slowly began to untie the knot at the back of his head holding the black piece of cloth in place over his empty eye socket, and he was still smiling as he lowered it, a cold and cruel smile. "You see, young Erik, in the end it was all in vain. For you never truly managed to extinguish the Eye of the Shadow."

The Phantom never turned his head away, though once Créon reached for the bandage to remove it, he felt as if a cold hand were gripping his heart, the hand of a dead man, and about to still his heart and take him on that final journey into the darkness, the journey from which there was no return. But he forced himself not to move, not to even blink. Créon had lowered his head slightly while uncovering the hidden part of his face, and now he raised it again, slowly and majestically, and the cold hand's pressure increased.

The Eye of the Shadow.

While Créon's left eye was of a pale blue, the right was black completely; there was no single spot of white in it, and the only colour was the pupil, a slit of bright, blazing yellow. His mismatched eyes bored into the Phantom's, and at that moment the Phantom believed that that invisible dead man had indeed succeeded.

"Can you see it now?" asked Créon gently, almost tenderly. "In the end, nothing truly mattered. Because whatever you could have done, you lost." He regarded the Phantom with a mixture of wariness and contempt. "Maybe it is the same this time, young Erik."

As he drew a deep breath, the Phantom was surprised that he was still breathing at all. Icy cold was filling his chest, and icy cold was in his lungs. For a moment his surroundings swam in and out of focus, then his vision reasserted itself. It seemed to him that inside that radiant pupil, a fire was burning, vast as the fires of Hell.

_This is the end_, a voice murmured in his head as mists were drifting past him, filling him with dizziness. _You have reached the end of your journey. It is time to face your greatest fear now. It is time to look Satan in the eye…_

Drawing another mouthful of air, he felt how heat and cold battled inside him. And there was something else, like a knife boring into the edge of his awareness… trying to invade his mind…

Strangely, it was this sensation that brought him out of his state of shock. Satan, eh? No, absolutely. As he found his voice again, he felt at least part of his courage return. "You'll have to try a bit harder, Créon."

There was a little jolt as Créon's attack on his mind rebounded, making the Phantom stagger slightly, and with astonishment he found that he was still on his feet. How long had that moment taken to pass? Minutes? Hours? Or only seconds? He did not know. Still the cold was there, but the dead man's hand had been pushed away. Oh no, he was not going to die just yet.

"Do not feel too smug, young man," Créon grated. He had expected him to be scared, probably, to faint maybe, or whatever, at least to be easy prey. Really, what was the madman thinking, if he was thinking at all? That he could scare the infamous Phantom of the Opera with an odd eye? Yes, well, the Phantom had to admit that he still did not like looking at it at all, to say the very least, that that accursed cold still had control over his chest, but he would not allow himself to be intimidated.

At the back of his head, there was a trembling knot of… pain? No. Fear? Yes, fear it might be, but somehow he was not quite sure. Christine. Despite Créon's presence, he reached out to her, stroked her awareness lightly, murmuring soothing words to her, imagining to whisper them into her hair as she trustingly snuggled into his arms. _Don't be afraid. I love you. Just don't be afraid._

_I'm fine, Erik._ Still his awareness of her was oddly uncertain, and suddenly it occurred to him that this might be because she was feeling faint, but it was getting stronger. She was recovering. _I'm really fine._

_No, you're not_, he thought grimly, his gaze once again boring into Créon's, who was watching him with a most peculiar expression. Still that accursed eye made him shiver, and still the cold had hardly diminished, but at least he could think clearly now. And Créon was going to pay for scaring Christine.

"Your attachment to weak little earthlings is your weakness," Créon stated.

"Your madness is yours," the Phantom retorted.

"Once before you were brought down by love."

This time, his heart constricted painfully with a very clear memory from a few days ago. Through clenched teeth, the Phantom hissed, "You have no idea."

"No, my young friend, it is _you_ who do not know what is really happening." Créon's lips twisted into a cool little smile, and his eyes, one cold, one burning, still rested on the Phantom, and he never blinked. "But let us come to that later. Now, it is time to discuss your allegiances."

"There is nothing to discuss," the Phantom replied coldly. "But you… when I first met you, you wanted me not to cover my scars." Strangely, it hardly hurt at all, speaking of them so openly. For this question, he tried to give his voice a derisive tone. "So why do you cover that pretty thing, then?"

Créon regarded him with an expression that might be called indignant, the Phantom was not quite sure, and his thin, elegant eyebrows shifted down to the base of his nose, making his brow furrow impressively. "Truly you do not know what you speak of. This is the Eye of the Shadow."

The Phantom was rather pleased with himself to manage a smirk again. "Yes, I heard that. How very impressive. But I would have expected you to show it off a bit – or do you just like the dramatic moments when you take that scrap away so people can get a look at it?"

"You do not understand," Créon cut him off coldly before he could say anything further. "The Eye of the Light sees this world, whereas the Eye of the Shadow gazes into the Twilight."

For a moment the Phantom's breath caught at the very idea – and it made perfect sense, damn that foul bastard! – but then he forced the feeling of growing dread down and instead made his features shift into a broad sneer. Now he had control over them again, it seemed much easier. "Surely you don't mean to say that you live in two worlds at once? But Hell be confounded, surely that would explain why you are, you know, not quite right in the head." All he needed was an opening, curse the man, a moment when Créon paid no attention, and provoking him seemed a promising way to make him lose control.

And indeed, when this time Créon's brows moved towards each other, it was in an expression of fury. "So you do not believe me, ignorant young fool? Then I shall make you see. Look me in the eyes, if you dare."

"I _am_ doing so, in case you have not quite –" Here the Phantom broke off, staring in disbelief at something swirling inside Créon's radiant yellow pupil. Could it be? What the Hell –

And then he suddenly felt as if a huge hand were picking him up and lifting him into the air; it seemed to him that he rapidly lost the ground under the soles of his high boots, and everything was blurring around him, turning into a storm of colours –

_And then the world reasserted itself, and he was no longer where he had been before. Instead of in a dusty underground hall lit by flames crackling on lines of braziers, he suddenly found himself in what appeared to be a courtyard right beneath the battlements of what might be a fortress, under the open sky, which was hung with the darkest of storm clouds he had ever seen. It would have been too dark for day, had it not been for the many fires burning everywhere, on the roofs of the turrets as well as on those of other buildings encircled by the strong defences. Wherever this place was, it was burning down to its foundations of stone, and even the sheer white walls of one of the towers rising up into the clouds seemed to be on fire, flames licking at the smooth surface, blackening it despite all the Phantom's experience to the contrary. There were shouts and screams all around him, and the sound of steel clashing with steel echoed manifold from the battlements. But it was not this that scared him. It was not even the sudden, but very distinct feeling that he knew those once white towers exactly. It was the man he was facing with a sword in his hand._

_I'm going mad, he thought. I'm going goddamn mad! No, there was no doubt of it, his opponent, armed with a bloodied blade just as well, was none other than himself. Of course, the scars were not there; the other's features – his own features – were smooth and even, and his hair was rather longer than he used to wear it, but apart from that, it was clearly him._

_Despite the situation, he could not quite suppress a little smirk as it occurred to him that shoulder-length hair worn open suited him much better than Raoul._

_The man who was resembling him so much launched into an attack, blade swirling, and he was too late to parry it. The cold steel bit into his left arm painfully. "Hold your filthy tongue, or I will cut it out and feed it to the crows!" his twin snarled at him, his teeth bared, and they seemed strangely white in a face darkened with soot and blood. Satan strangle him, it even was his voice!_

_"You may try, my foolish friend," he heard himself answer, but in a deeper voice than his own. "You may try."_

_And then he understood. He was seeing this through Créon's eyes._

_"I will, curse you!" His own sharp blow made him – no, not himself, Créon! – stumble backwards, though he parried it just in time, and the man who was the Phantom leapt after his enemy, aiming for his chest, and once again Créon could only stumble backwards. He was already bleeding from a wound in the thigh, as well as from a few others, the Phantom suddenly noticed, while himself he was not hurt at all, or at least not visibly; the blood on his face and clothes did not necessarily have to be his own. Créon was losing._

_And he used his chances well. It was strange to watch himself attack, driving Créon backwards, and the idea of seeing through Créon's eyes was even stranger, but he could not suppress a triumphant feeling spreading in his stomach, despite Créon's pain he was experiencing._

_"Give her back," he snarled at Créon, his features contorted with rage and utmost loathing, but as well with great pain. Watching himself with horrid fascination, he realized he had never thought himself capable of such a grimace._

_"I told you, she is dead, you fool! Dead, beyond recall!" The force of the next two blows was tremendous, making Créon stagger backwards, towards the wall rising up to a height of fifteen feet above the courtyard. Yet nonetheless he continued in the same derisive tone, "Yet you can still speak to her, if you only join me. I am your only link to the Twilight."_

_"You're a liar and nothing more!" the Phantom, or whoever he was to Créon, snarled. His fierce blows left no time for Créon to attack himself, and he was not able to block all of them._

_"You know the powers of the Herald of Fate." Even as Créon said so, the Phantom felt that now he was with his back against the wall. Another of his own strikes, led sideways and upwards and missing Créon's face very barely, forced his enemy to side-step, and Créon found his foot on a step, on the bottommost step of a stair leading up onto the battlement. With the Phantom's own vicious attacks to counter, Créon had no choice but to retreat upwards. It was odd to feel himself stumbling upwards while at the same time knowing that this was someone else through whose eyes he saw – and what made it even stranger, through whose eyes he saw himself._

_Yes, if this was him at all. The man looked like him, moved like him, talked like him, but was it not just an illusion made up by Créon?_

_Niobe had seen him the same way, he recalled, with shoulder-length hair and his features unmarred._

_And this was the very same place which had also played a part in Niobe's memory, or whatever it had been._

_At once Créon's words from a little earlier, words he had hardly paid attention to, came back to him._ You won, then, and you extinguished the Eye of the Shadow at the moment you gave me this scar I shall forever be branded with, and you even cast me down over the ramparts you yourself had built, the mighty, glorious Pillars of Heaven.

_The Pillars of Heaven. This was where they were, and this was their last confrontation, their final duel. He was going to inflict this wound upon Créon now, and then to throw him down over the parapets, down into the endless abyss waiting beyond the ramparts._

_This, he thought, looking into his own face, was the Keeper of the Gates, whoever he might be._

A fallen angel, and far from Heaven…

_Oh, curse you, Claire! Did you really have to say that?_

_"You know that it lies in my power to speak to your lost love, even where she is now," Créon began again, though his voice sounded pressed and he was breathing hard, and a frantic edge had entered his voice, something that had not been there before._

_"And you think you can manipulate me with that?" he roared, his features a mask of fury. "You think you can make me serve you?" The Phantom saw his own eyes gleam with the fire of hatred; just as bright as all the fires around them they seemed. "Your clever plan has failed, Herald," he snarled as he advanced further, driving Créon back up the stairs. "You're wrong this time."_

_"And maybe we can find a way to bring her back." Créon's voice was definitely frantic now; the concept of his plan failing was what he feared, the Phantom assumed, more than physical injury. "If you agree to… help me."_

_"Help you?" the Phantom cried. Créon very barely blocked one of his ferocious thrusts, but he turned and kicked him in the chest hard; the Phantom could feel the air being forced out of his lungs as his very own boot collided with his chest, throwing him backwards – Hell consume itself, this perspective was driving him mad! "Save your breath, for I'm not going to believe one damn word you're saying to me!" As Créon fell, landing on his back at the top of the stairs, where they opened onto the broad walkway on the rampart – the pain in Créon's memory filled the Phantom with grim satisfaction, even though it was he himself who was experiencing it now – his opponent stepped over him, the Keeper of the Gates, Erik, he himself, whoever it was – and what did it matter, anyway? – his sword pointed at Créon's chest, while a smirk appeared on his features, made even grimmer by the stains of soot and blood on his face, crusted with sweat in places, and the wild, tangled hair, flying in a sudden gust of cold wind blowing up here. It was a fresh breeze, but still it carried the smell of burning timber, and veils of smoke were dancing on the air like wisps of fog. Blood was running down along the lowered blade, dripping onto Créon's dark coat. Créon's blood. "Now what can you offer me? What bargain comes to your twisted mind? What hope still remains to you, now you have lost?"_

_"If I have lost or not, who can say?" Créon spoke as if there were no blade aimed at him, as if he were standing before his opponent, not lying on his back. Had he regained his composure? And if he had, why? What did he still have in store? "But it is certain that you have. What have you become? Behold the Keeper of the Gates, the slayer of his own men, the destroyer of his own fortress, the traitor of his own blood! Of what use is your glory now, your cunning, your voice, your pretty face? And all your valiant deeds, what good are they to you anymore, now everyone knows you have turned to the Shadow?"_

_"And yet I stand in the Shadow's way." There were… things dangling from the belt of the figure representing him, the Phantom noticed, a whole cluster at his right side, opposite to the place where his sword straps were hooked into his belt, holding the now empty scabbard in place. What were they? A small stone ring, a strand of hair, what suspiciously looked like a fell beast's fang, and quite a few more, most of which he could not identify, all fixed to thin leather cords. Were they trophies of some kind, trophies from past duels? Yes, he _did_ keep things as trophies sometimes, but the only ones he used wear on his belt were the daggers. Had he ever decorated himself with such things, as he was seeing it now?_

_No, it was needless to ponder this question, as what he was seeing was nothing more than a figment of Créon's imagination, anyway._

_And suddenly laughter shook Créon, a cold, mirthless, cruel kind of laughter. "But of what use is it now?"_

_"The world is not lost yet."_

_"That's what you think."_

_"Except from your perspective, perhaps." The tip of his sword drew a threatening semicircle in midair, ending it much closer to Créon's throat than before. Had he ever owned a real sword, he wondered, one of those archaic, but so perfectly elegant weapons? "For I will cut you to a million pieces now." The little smirk had turned into a sneer now. "Then deathless you may be, but also very much in pieces. We'll see how long it will take you to regenerate from _that_ state."_

_"It is your last chance," Créon insisted, and now the frantic undertone had returned to his voice. "I am the only one who can offer you contact to your beloved –"_

_"As I have told you before, I'm not believing you anymore. Don't you even dare mention her!" His expression was frozen to a mask as he spoke, yet the Phantom knew those features only too well, and he could read the pain in them, the immeasurable pain for the loss of his love. "Your reign ends right here, before it has even begun." And he raised the sword as if for a fatal blow –_

_And then, very suddenly, Créon took away his eye patch. The Phantom had not realized he was wearing one, probably because Créon was so used to it that he did not feel it anymore, and because the Phantom was seeing this through him, after all. But now, as he took it off, it became clear at once that he had worn one… and why._

_At the moment the eye patch was lowered, his vision changed. The image of himself standing over the fallen figure was still there, though he staggered backwards now, his eyes fixed on Créon's face. But there was another image, too, laid atop the first, a strange picture drawn from constantly flaring light and shadows, all black and white as it seemed, flickering, shifting and changing continually. It was still him standing there, but then again, it was not. It was a shadow, no, a reflection, no, he had no idea what it really was, an image of some kind, blurred at the edges and not clear at all, and dragged at by some kind of invisible wind, its howling filling his ears, rising and falling, from a low hissing changing to a vast crescendo of an unearthly wind blowing where none could feel it._

_Time._

_He had no idea how he had come up with that; all of a sudden it had appeared in his head. And maybe he was right, because there were more shapes around them, not only the distant shapes of other fighters, just as blurred as the strange reflection of himself, but also figures that weren't there in the other world, dark, lingering shapes, and they were still, pale as smoke, maybe, but not blurred. The eerie wind did not touch them._

_The dead. Their place is beyond time._

_As he stared at the shape before him, and at the fleeting images dancing around it, Créon's voice still filled his consciousness as he slowly rose to his feet again while his enemy stood frozen. "Do not underestimate the power of the Eye of the Shadow." There was a sword, appearing beside him in midair along with several other such things and then winking out again, much paler than all the figures he saw, but still outlined clearly. "For it pierces the veil of mists and glimpses a realm you others will never see." A severed head. A lantern. A length of rope, tied into a noose. In his ears, the wind of time screamed. "I will be able to perceive her. Only I can still see Aminta." A galloping horse. A star. And then his breath caught, the moment he saw the white half-mask. "I am your only link to her now." A rolling dice cube with seven sides. A ring set with a pale stone. A rose tied with a black ribbon._

_And even as this image appeared, one of the dark, pale shapes seemed to float towards them, becoming clearer as it did. The image of the rose seemed to linger, and the shadowy figure stopped right below it, holding out its arms for the shape that was him. And Hell devour him, that face, those features so well known to him, and dearer than anything in the world…_

_And then the sword descended on him at last, and Créon was too late to duck or parry, and the blade ate its way into his head through the right eye, destroying the picture of light and shadows dancing, and there was pain, mad, searing pain, and the world turned black…_

And then, very suddenly, he was back where he had been before, though he had no idea how much time had elapsed. He still stood facing Créon; apparently they had not moved since.

That spectre… His heart ached at the memory of it. Had it truly been…?

No. No. It had been an illusion, nothing but a lie! All of this!

"You are remarkably strong, young Erik," Créon said softly. "You saw it all, all the Eye of the Shadow chose to show you, and you saw through it yourself, but still you kept your consciousness."

"You can't manipulate me anymore," the Phantom answered just as quietly. No, he could not be made to have visions any longer. All the time he had been aware of who he really was, and that he was seeing an illusion and nothing more.

"You sound just like you did millennia ago, boy. You heard it yourself." Créon was wearing his thin, cruel smile again. "Yes, this was our final confrontation at the end of a dying age. What you saw were its death throes, caused by your treason. After this battle was over, the world was changed forever. It was the end of the days of old, of a better age, and it made way for others to come and pass, and slowly the Age of Gold was forgotten. It is said that it will come again with the ever-circling years, but who can tell? All I can assure you of, young Erik, is that the reign of darkness will come, sooner or later, and it does not matter what you do, however you try to stand in my way. For in the end it all will be in vain." Carelessly he reached up to brush a strand of long dark hair out of his sight. "Yes, Erik. All you did then was in vain, even though you believed you had destroyed me for good after that blow which gave me that scar forever, and after casting me down over the parapets. But here I am again, and I will not be stopped. And once more all your efforts will be in vain."

"Is this what you think?" Hell, the man was stupid, downright stupid! And Christine's touch on his mind, gently, questioningly, made the Phantom bold. With his demonstration from just a moment ago, lie or not, Créon had accidentally given him the perfect idea. Swiftly he drew his sabre, the hissing of metal over metal as it came out of its sheath filling him with mad delight. "For I will now do what you have just shown me, I think. And I'm afraid that once again you will not be able to stop me."

But why was Créon not backing away, curse him? Why was he just watching the Phantom calmly as he advanced on him with his weapon drawn? Hell swallow him, why was that damn bastard not afraid?

Créon answered this question quickly enough, just as the point of the sabre almost touched his chest. "You make one mistake there, young Erik," he told him calmly. "Because a change of weapons means a change for me, as well. Time for a weapon I did not find any use for until now, then."

The Phantom did not have to turn to realize the gypsies were advancing on him. He could feel them coming, from behind him, from both sides, also from ahead. Even as they did, he took a swift step towards Créon, the sabre raised, but Créon was deftly retreating now, side-stepping the attack, and then his servants were there, forming a silent circle around him.

Inwardly cursing himself and his own folly to completely forget them, the Phantom took a full turn, regarding them. He counted twelve, ten men and two women, all except three with the gypsies' swarthy complexion, all grim-faced and carrying axes and cudgels, or at least a knife. They were not advancing on him now, but he was sure they would, once he stabbed the first of their number. And there were more waiting outside the circle, watching them warily.

Taking a deep, calming breath, the Phantom lowered his sabre and closed his eyes, not bothering at all with what they were going to think. This called for a special trick.

There was something else he was aware of, too, and he did not quite know if he should be pleased or not with what he felt. What exactly was that Chagny boy up to? Well, he would find out soon enough.

But until then, he would be done here.

With his usual quiet efficiency, the Phantom set to work.


	76. VII Learn to find your Way in Darkness

**VII. Learn to find your Way in Darkness**

Christine could feel him clearly, and she was glad for his newfound confidence. The feeling came back to her along the connection totally unasked for, thrilling her, filling her with a strange kind of something close to euphoria she certainly had no reason to feel. She felt like skipping up and down, like rolling on the floor giggling, like doing many a completely stupid thing, just for the fun of it.

Like tying Raoul and the Phantom to her bed, each to one bedpost at the head end, and tickling them mercilessly.

Heavens, the mere idea of it! There was something delightfully improper about it, as well as something hilariously silly. It almost made her laugh out loud with mirth.

But Lord above, she thought, more soberly, she could not just act like that! She could not just fall over herself giggling only because the Phantom was in a particularly good mood! One of these days she would probably need a word with him concerning that connection. Not that she wanted it broken, but… less strong, maybe. It would be better if such things did not occur. What if it was not pleased he felt, but something else? What if he was furious, would she throw a tantrum then? And – she felt the blood rise to her cheeks – what if he was filled with a certain longing, a longing one had to suppress?

It might have been a good idea for tactical reasons, but still… she should not have let him kiss her. Once again their connection seemed to have grown stronger by them kissing.

But then again, how could she have known it would? It had only been a brief little kiss, nothing more. Nothing wrong with it.

Well, actually there was, since she was not supposed to kiss anyone apart from her fiancé.

But she could make a little exception, couldn't she? In a situation like this?

Craning her neck, she regarded her fiancé, still standing beside her, straight and tall, and his eyes still fixed on the place where the Phantom had last stood before he had turned away and disappeared. It had been hard for Raoul, she knew, letting him go. He had not wanted to, and he had been stubborn to a certain extent; he had refused to turn back and leave it all to the Phantom. Of course, Raoul was not the one to let anyone alone in danger, not even his enemy.

His enemy, for Heaven's sake! Those two could get on well enough together, if they just tried hard enough! Still they were bickering over anything that could or could not be bickered over, and still they were glaring at each other continually, but there was something else, too, some kind of grudging respect for each other. Raoul would not betray a companion in arms, and the Phantom… Despite their connection, Christine had to admit to herself that she had no idea how his mind really worked, but she suspected that what he felt towards Raoul was some kind of possessive feeling – if anybody was allowed to hurt Raoul, then it was him alone. Christine smiled at that. Oh, Erik… You want to have everything, don't you? However dark and menacing he could be, at the moment she just wanted to tousle his hair for a bit. And maybe wrestle with him; she had never tried that yet.

Oh, that silly feeling of euphoria!

Sitting a few steps above her still, Meg was entertaining the others with the story of Carlotta and the broccoli. "And she claimed they were overcooked, you see," she was saying, "so she threw a tantrum, and then she tipped the stuff into her dog's bowl."

There were snickers from Xavier, Marie and Leclair, and the pair of stagehands seemed to be listening, too; at least Gaston wore something like a small grin – she was glad he was, after Hulot's death had obviously pained him so much. With Serge, it was hard to say; the man's calm, quiet bearing, almost to be considered dignity, did not allow for any conclusions about his feelings.

And what about Raoul? Was he listening? Judging from his expression, he was far away, deep in thought, and still he was gazing intently at the same spot, and he did not blink.

Could it be that it had hurt him what she had said to Erik? Could it be that he was jealous again? Certainly she had not meant to! She reached for his hand, and as he felt her touching him, he took her fingers in his, but still he did not turn his head away from the side entrance. He only caressed her hand, almost thoughtlessly.

"And just as she had turned her back again on the dog, guess what happened?" Meg was grinning already, seemingly enjoying the others' undivided attention. "Splat! The bowl comes flying right after her!"

There was laughter now, especially from Xavier, and Christine was glad to finally have a proper reason for giggling. Even Serge was grinning now, but still Raoul's features remained as frozen as they were. What was wrong with him? Ever since they had come here, or no, ever since they had taken the coach to the Opera House this morning, he had been like that, so gloomy, so… dark. He could not be ill, could he? On their coach ride, all he had done, apart from uttering a few words when addressed, was gazing out into the snow-covered streets, at the snow-laden roofs, up towards the serene grey sky. And once Christine had thought that there was a strange glitter in his eyes, like the glitter of tears, but she had not been sure, and when she had leaned forward to take his hands in hers, it had been gone, if it had ever been there.

"And? Was she covered in soggy broccoli?" Xavier inquired eagerly, his features twisting into a grimace of wicked glee.

"Did she scream?" asked Leclair.

"Did she yell at the dog?" Marie wanted to know.

"At the _dog_?" Xavier put in. "How? That beast – and the new one, too – is the only thing she really likes in the world! I wonder when she's going to erect an altar for the stupid things."

"No," Meg said, "she just stared at it, and it stared back at her. And then somebody started screaming about the Opera Ghost."

"Ah," Leclair grinned, "I see it coming."

"And then Carlotta started screaming about the Ghost, too," Meg continued cheerfully. "About how they had made up all those stories only to annoy her."

Marie raised her eyebrows. "Sounds like a lethal thing to say to me."

"Obviously not, or else Carlotta wouldn't be around still," Xavier muttered, trying to remove a dirt particle from under his fingernail employing another fingernail, and with his tongue caught between his teeth, so that what he was saying sounded muffled. "Sadly," he added.

Now that was exaggerated, Christine thought, wanting Carlotta dead. She disliked the conceited diva as well, and she had every reason to, after some things Carlotta had said to her, culminating in calling her a little toad on stage so that the spectators at least in the front five rows could hear it, but still Christine did not wish for her to die. To have another attack of croaks, perhaps, if she kept behaving like this, but not to die.

Equally, she had never wished for Ubaldo Piangi to die. The fat tenor had been Carlotta's partner, and he had supported her in practically everything, but never had he been unfriendly to Christine. During the rehearsals for _Don Juan_, she had been forced to spend quite enough time with him, and she really would have preferred to have somebody else to sing a duet with, and somebody where she did not have to arch her back to the point of snapping when leaning against him only not to get in the way of his far too well-filled belly. And acting out a love scene with Piangi had just been… odd. But that he had gotten the lead in _Don Juan_ had been his death sentence, apparently; the Phantom had killed him, taken Passarino's cloak from him and appeared on stage in his stead. Still Christine's feelings were ambiguous about this moment. It had been marvellous, singing this duet together with someone who not only sang it better by far than Piangi, but also someone whom she could vividly imagine being seduced by – God, the touch of his hands, and feeling his hard, strong body against hers… And at the same time, she had been mortally afraid, no, terrified. Why had he tormented her so? But she knew the answer to this question, and it was also the answer to why Piangi had had to die: Because the Phantom wildly, passionately loved her. And because the fear to lose her had driven him mad.

But at that moment, when the Phantom had appeared on stage in Piangi's stead and in his costume – no, not Piangi's costume, that would have been far too wide for him, and he would have looked like a scarecrow in it; he had somehow managed to have one of his own made, and one a woman could hardly regard on him without blushing, too – it must have been Raoul who had been afraid to lose her. Poor Raoul, forced to watch helplessly how she had leaned back into the Phantom's embrace, seemingly forgetting the world around her…

She gently squeezed her fiancé's hand, and in response Raoul let his thumb wander over her fingers caressingly. Christine thought she could hear him sigh, but probably she was mistaken.

Where was the Phantom now? He must have almost arrived at where Créon was awaiting him by now. Gingerly she reached out for him, searching for his presence. Yes, she could feel him, but she could not quite say where he was, only that he was on the same cellar level still, and that he was going away from her. Curious, she applied a gentle poke to his awareness…

And immediately she felt the inward warmth of his full mental attention, like being wrapped in a warm, cosy blanket. _I love you_, he murmured to her tenderly.

_I know_, she thought, smiling. But the next moment, she could have pulled her own hair. What a stupid answer! You could not just say you knew it when somebody confessed his love to you, for Heaven's sake, no matter whether you knew it or not! Would he be angry? Perhaps he would. Christine bit her tongue. Oh, what an idiotic thing to say, indeed! She imagined the look he might give her now if he were here, the sharp, cold glare… Reaching out, she imagined brushing a loose strand of hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear, then running her hand on through his hair, to the back of his neck. His gaze would soften now, she knew, and maybe he would even close his eyes, like he had done just before she had taken his mask away for the first time. Remembering it, she still had a bad conscience about it. At least she could have asked. Poor Erik.

Only then she realized that her other hand had also wandered up into his hair in the image in her head, and now her fingers were gently brushing along both sides of his neck, one hand on each, tickling him slightly before she reached his shoulders, and then they continued down over his chest all of their own accord. He was rather more muscular than Raoul, it seemed, though she would need to place the two of them next to each other to be truly able to compare them. Perhaps if they both were in those nice lacy white shirts, those shirts which could be worn hanging open so delightfully –

Good Lord, what was she thinking there? Rapidly she withdrew her hands, or else she had no idea where they would wander next. Lord above! Here she was, holding her fiancé's hand, and at the same time seriously comparing his anatomy to that of another! She was not supposed to know about any other's anatomy, for Heaven's sake!

Well, she was not exactly supposed to know about Raoul's, either. Blushing, she recalled a few anatomical details no unmarried girl should know about. One of these days, she would really have to go to Confession about this.

And she would have to tell Raoul quite firmly and clearly to cease all his attempts towards any further improper actions. Wasn't he a gentleman, after all? But however fine his manners, once they got into bed, he had an uncanny tendency of letting his hands wander where they really were not supposed to be, and the allusions he sometimes murmured to her… Her cheeks were pulsing hotly by now.

"What's the matter with you?" Raoul whispered, squatting down before her and stroking her cheek. "You're practically breaking my fingers, love."

Had she squeezed his hand that hard? She had not noticed at all. "Sorry," she murmured, avoiding his worried gaze. Such a fool she was making of herself today…

"No damage done." He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, almost lost his balance and snickered a little about it, and she was glad that he was not looking as grim anymore as he had just a moment ago.

In the meantime, Meg had reached the end of her narrative. "And then she stalked out, all the time screeching about broccoli and this so-called Opera Ghost, and she had no idea that it really _was_ Erik who threw the bowl at her."

There was laughter again, of course, and even Christine had to smile. Interpreting this as a sign that she was well, Raoul smiled in response and tickled her under the chin.

"I never knew he had a sense of humour," Marie stated.

"Neither did I," Leclair agreed, "but I guessed it was him who threw that bowl. I mean, the dog throwing it? Oh, come on!"

"Carlotta's just stupid, that's all," Xavier said contemptuously, and then went on to explain at great length why the Phantom had taste, in his opinion – how couldn't he, disliking Carlotta strongly just as well?

Gaston and Serge now turned their backs on the group and took a walk along the shoreline, but only after stubbing out their cigarettes and leaving them neatly in a corner, assuring each other that they would ask "the Lord Phantom" where he kept the dustbin as soon as possible, and Leclair and Marie followed their example. Christine was glad they were not smoking any longer, because the smell was definitely upsetting her stomach.

Her father had never smoked, as far as she remembered.

Raoul cleared his throat softly. "Would you mind coming with me for a moment?" he asked, almost nervously.

Rising to her feet, Christine followed him out into the main room. Still she could feel the Phantom clearly, and still he was confident, but there was something else now, a tautness that had not been there before.

He was facing Créon now.

As she realized this, Christine suddenly knew what it meant to feel her mouth go dry. Of course, she had known where he was heading, she had known it all along. But all the same, being aware that he stood opposite the worst of all his enemies right now, and all alone…

But still he was confident. He was so brave, her Erik, so brave and so strong.

Once again, Raoul cleared his throat. "You know," he began, "about you and… and _him_… don't think that I don't love you, but… well, anyway, this has nothing to do with it, but all the same, I mean, it's just… well… er…" Spluttering himself into silence, he bit his lip. "What I was meaning to say," he tried again, "was that… you know… well, you and him…"

"You didn't like it when I told him I loved him," Christine interrupted. Oh, _Raoul_! Always worrying when there was no reason to worry!

"Er," said Raoul. "No." Christine was not quite sure whether she was just imagining it, but it seemed to her that his cheeks had assumed a slightly pink colour.

She sighed softly. So he had gotten it wrong, after all. Poor dear. Reaching up, she tenderly stroked his cheek. "It's alright, my love," she murmured to him. How soft his skin felt under her touch! "You're still my sweet favourite darling."

"You love him," he said flatly. "Don't you." It was not a question anymore.

"Oh, Raoul! Of course I do, but not in the way you think! I just said it to make him feel better, you see, so he had something happy to think about when going to find Créon. He's not any kind of…" She sought for an appropriate word for a moment. "He's not my love interest, not like you are."

Raoul nodded, but still he was frowning, and Christine was not sure whether she had managed to dissipate his doubts. Probably not, she was afraid, but at least he did not look that sad anymore. Oh, poor thing! The mere idea of Raoul being sad broke her heart. "But you do love him, all the same," he stated.

"Yes, but not in the way I love you! He's more like a… like a… I don't know," she confessed. "A mixture of brother and father and… No, I really don't know." And guardian angel, maybe. She had to smile at that. "And I'm still going to marry you, my silly little cuddle-bear!" This last idea made her giggle softly as she imagined Raoul with a pair of furry ears, despite the growing feeling of tension at the back of her head.

In response, he pulled her into a tight hug. "My little lamb," he muttered into her hair, and she wrapped her arms around his waist in turn. She did not know what he felt like right now, whether her answer had satisfied him or not, but she was certain he enjoyed being near her as much as she was glad to be near him. Huddling against Raoul closely, and with the clear awareness of Erik in her head… What more could she possibly ask for?

That Erik came back soon and unharmed. Being held by Raoul somewhat soothed her worries, but still she could not quite be sure what was really going on in that underground hall, not so far away.

"I love you," Raoul whispered, his lips brushing against her temple briefly.

She twirled a long strand of his hair around her forefinger. "I know."

Oh, Lord in Heaven, she had done it _again_! To save herself from some embarrassment, she started giggling and playfully pinched his backside, after making sure that nobody was watching.

Luckily Raoul merely snickered along. "You do?"

"Yes, froggy." God, she was being too silly to be allowed! Still the consequences of Erik's earlier feeling of euphoria, she suspected.

Raoul gave an odd little snort. "What was that?"

Christine chose to poke him in ribs. She was only being cheerful, she assumed, to keep herself from weeping with growing worry. "You're my slippery green froggy. And I love you."

"Slippery green froggy," Raoul repeated, snickering softly to himself, and Christine was glad that he was not taking offence at all at her desperate silliness. "I'll tell you what _you_ are, you dishevelled little anteater!"

Anteater? Christine did not know exactly what kind of animal that was supposed to be, though she had heard the term before, but it certainly sounded entertaining. She wished she could use it to cheer poor Erik up a little, but he certainly would not appreciate being disturbed in his concentration only to be called an anteater.

Maybe she'd try it on him another time.

For some time she and Raoul stood in silence, just holding each other. They would have a word about this all later on, she was certain – he would definitely bring the subject up again once they were back at home – but for now she was happy just to have him close.

Back home. Wasn't the Opera House her real home? Of course, the dwelling of Raoul's family was going to be her place of constant residence sooner or later, and she was already living there for now, though she was not sure what his parents would have to say to this, but currently the Opera House still was her home. She had not quite moved out yet. It would be improper, anyway.

And at the back of her head, the feeling of tension increased, mingled with growing anger. Don't give in, Erik, she pleaded, don't let him provoke you…

Then, very suddenly, it happened: At once she felt like there was a cold hand closing around her throat, blocking all fresh air, and in the pit of her stomach, a lump of ice was building. Before her eyes, dots of colour swirled, making her dizzy. Had Raoul not held her, she might have been in danger of falling over. The light around her was growing dimmer. God, it was so…cold… cold…

"Christine?" Raoul's voice very barely entered her clouded consciousness. "My God, Christine, what's wrong? What happened?"

Only very slowly, she realized where she was. God, what had really happened? She had no idea. Except –

"It's Erik." Still she felt that she could not get enough air, but at least she was able to speak. "He's in trouble. He needs our help." Oh God, what was Créon doing? What had happened to Erik?

And then at once there was a little patch of warmth among all the ice in her stomach, and she could hear his voice in her head, and she practically felt his breath against her cheek as he murmured soothing words to her. _Don't be afraid. I love you. Just don't be afraid._

Oh, Erik! She wanted to hug him and tickle him and call him an anteater all at once! But he should not concentrate on her, not when he was facing Créon! _I'm fine, Erik_, she hastened to assure him. And indeed she was feeling much better already; only her fear was making her feel cold now. _I'm really fine._

Again there was anger coming from him, but stronger than before; once again hatred flared up in his mind, and it was mirrored in hers. God, she wanted to rip Créon to a thousand shreds with her bare hands!

Oh, what a thing to think, for goodness's sake!

"You there!" Raoul called to the others. "Get moving! We're going!" Immediately those who were still seated leapt up from the stairs, and Gaston and Serge came hurrying towards them – or rather striding, in Serge's case. "Xavier, get the bow and arrows from the bedroom. Does anybody know anything about how to handle them?" Still with an arm around Christine's shoulders, Raoul loosened the revolver in his belt. "Right then, you keep it with you, and pretend you know. Is everybody ready? Well then, here we go!"

Astounded, Christine realized that they were indeed all ready, lining up before the side entrance, ready to march. And all it had needed to get them this far were a few words from Raoul. A true officer. At once she felt very proud of her fiancé.

Taking her hand in his, Raoul guided her towards them. "Now you lead," he said softly. "You'll find the way."

Surprised, she looked up at him. "Me?"

"Of course. You can feel him, can't you? Gaston, come here with that torch."

Christine realized that everybody was looking at her now, and at once she felt rather nervous, but only for a short moment, because then her awareness of the Phantom very suddenly changed. All at once, it was… dimmed. Still he was there, but his presence was less clear now.

God, were they already too late?

Pulling Raoul with her, she started towards the narrow arch into the darkness before she even realized her feet were moving. Gaston fell in behind them first, holding up his torch, and then the others followed. She could hear the sound of their footsteps, the only sound there was left suddenly as they were all swallowed up by the shadows.

She did not like the dark. She had never liked it. And as she started into it now, she could not quite chase away the feeling that there were invisible eyes everywhere, watching her. But Raoul was with her, Raoul was holding her hand, and she was not afraid. She would not be afraid of the dark anymore.

Because it was Erik's darkness, not Créon's.

She would find her way through the lingering shadows. She would find her way to Erik. And there was nothing she needed to fear, not as long as this realm was still Erik's.

And then it seemed to her that the darkness was growing less heavy, that there were thin lines of living light floating all around her… As she closed her eyes for a moment, she understood. Why had she not realized this earlier? She could not see the threads of darkness, maybe, nor could she feel them, but she could see the threads of fire. Erik's threads of fire.

And though they truly could not light the dark corridors, they still lit up the darkness in her mind.


	77. VIII How you've repaid me

**VIII. How you've repaid me**

The closer they came, the clearer Christine could feel the Phantom, muffled though her awareness of him had become. What had happened she did not know, and she feared that Créon was already taking over his mind, but he had not yet done so, not until now; she was sure she would have felt it otherwise, the sudden change of feeling in her head, the images flashing up before her own eyes as he lost control, the swirling clouds of mist… No, he was still free, though there was a strangely subdued quality to his mind. But he was free. Créon had not yet been able to harm him.

By now Raoul had let go of her hand, but only to be able to hold his drawn sabre and his revolver both at once. Otherwise, he still kept very close to her side, his expression one of concentration and of grim determination, made even grimmer by the firelight from Gaston's torch flashing over his features.

When she turned, she could see Serge immediately behind them, clutching the axe, and his surprisingly green eyes were alight with a dark fire she had not seen in them before. Maybe she was just imagining things; her mind was certainly quite capable of it, in a situation like this. Maybe she wasn't. Who could tell anymore where reality ended and where the dream began, down here in the Phantom's realm of shadows?

Once they encountered a man, a tall, swarthy outpost of Créon's, armed with what suspiciously looked like a scythe blade. Leering like a skull, thereby exposing a set of blackened teeth, he came towards Christine, his odd curved blade raised, but Raoul's sabre entered his body and pierced his heart with a dull, sickening sound before he came too close, and they continued on their way, Christine with a knot of nausea gathering in her stomach. How she wished for a breath of fresh air! Maybe that would help making her forget that sound of a man stabbed to death, however much he may have deserved it. She was wary; they all were; but they encountered none until they had reached the corridor leading to the hall Créon had taken up residence in, until they glimpsed the eerie red light spilling out from under the archway like the blood of a slain man.

Christine came to a halt, and so did the others behind her. There was a muttered apology from somebody who had probably jostled somebody else, but apart from that, the silence was complete now. Ahead there was the Phantom; her awareness of him was very strong already, though it still seemed oddly dimmed, yet even as she thought so, it suddenly increased and intensified, and then it was back to normal again, and still Créon had not taken over his mind. Letting go of a breath she had not been aware she was holding, Christine felt a glorious wave of relief flood her insides. They were not too late yet.

As they advanced further cautiously, she thought she could hear voices, and she strained her ears while she and her companions sneaked towards the red-lit entrance carefully, step by step, yet they were not clear enough. Once it seemed to her that it was the Phantom speaking, and her awareness of him was filled with seething, burning hatred, but most of the time it was another voice, deeper than the Phantom's, and strangely cold, a voice she recognized from her nightmares.

Créon. It must be him.

Christine exchanged a glance with Raoul, and he met her gaze, then nodded, and from then on, he had taken over again. He motioned for Gaston and Serge to come forward, and together they took the lead, but Christine remained close behind. When they came to her Erik's aid, she would be there, and she would not be hiding.

At last, after what felt like the best part of eternity, they were there, at the entrance, and Raoul stopped, with a raised hand motioning the others to do the same. Holding her breath, Christine listened for the sound of men speaking, and now she heard it clearly, Créon's dreaded voice. "You make one mistake there, young Erik," he was saying, and a note of triumph had entered his otherwise emotionless tone. "Because a change of weapons means a change for me, as well. Time for a weapon I did not find any use for until now, then."

Christine saw how Raoul's brow knitted into a frown. What weapon was that, what did Créon mean? Be steadfast, Erik, please be steadfast! We're here to help you.

Signing to the others to remain where they were, Raoul took a step forward and leaned against the wall with his back, his revolver and sabre both at the ready, carefully peering into the hall. Christine thought to see his knuckles whiten on his sabre hilt. All eyes were on him, and they all watched him with baited breath, but at first he did not move. There was the clanging of metal on metal suddenly, making Christine's heart race, then a brief, muffled scream, then there was silence again for a moment, but still Raoul did not move. The Phantom's mind was swirling with hatred still, making her almost dizzy by her mere awareness of him, but there was a definite hint of triumph now, of a twisted, evil kind of joy. And then the noises were repeated, and they were increasing now.

Christine could not suppress her curiosity any longer. "Raoul?" she whispered, so softly that she herself barely heard it. "What's happening?"

She was not quite sure whether he had understood at all what exactly she was saying, but he turned his head towards her, and to her surprise, he was grinning. "It seems," he whispered back, "that your masked friend is very much in control of things."

Still there was the sound of weapons, and of men dying, as it seemed – Christine shuddered at the thought – but it was diminishing, fading down to what sounded like two blades meeting repeatedly.

And then Raoul waved them forward. Quietly, noiselessly they moved, towards the entrance and through it, into the red light of the lantern.

And then Christine saw the Phantom, tall and upright and with his sabre drawn, a ring of fallen men around him. Only two were left standing, yet fighting not him, but each other, and even as she watched, one stabbed the other through the throat. And before the loser's limp body lay still at his feet, the winner had already used his long, broad-bladed dagger to pierce his own heart. He too fell, twitching on the ground for a few moments with the Phantom quietly watching, standing over him in his Red Death costume like death himself would, in the calm knowledge of being the ultimate triumphant. The sabre blade gleamed in the dancing firelight of the lines of braziers; there was no blood on it. As at last all thrashing had ceased, he spoke, and his voice echoed through the hall. "Is there no-one else?"

There were more servants left, Christine perceived, most of them cowering behind the lines of braziers, but some of them also fingering weapons and watching the Phantom warily. Would he be able to take over all those minds and turn them against each other? For that this was what he had been doing, Christine had no doubt.

"You lost me many a servant, boy," Créon said, his cold voice making Christine shiver despite the heat caused by all the burning braziers. "Even Bertrand, one of our own kind, has apparently fled in terror of you and your powers, and I doubt he will ever return." Had he not yet noticed their arrival? His back was turned on them, but all the same, Christine suspected that he knew, just as the Phantom probably did, who was not facing them fully, either. "Indeed you have grown strong. Yet if you think you have already won, then you are very much mistaken. Some battles you cannot win. Some battles are lost before they even began. So it was with the War of the Shadow, and so it will be again in all our confrontations yet to come. Some things never change."

"Some things do." The Phantom's voice did not fill the hall anymore this time, but it still rang out clearly, and several of the crouching servants flinched as if touched by a whip's cruel lashes. Fire seemed to fill his awareness, the fire of wrath and vengeance, and Christine's heart beat in tune with the rising and falling flames. "My fate is mine to change, and mine alone."

Next to her, Raoul cleared his throat, not heeding the warning look she shot him. "Besides, this party is over, Créon."

The servants' heads swivelled towards them, and Créon turned, his black cloak and robes flowing around him. "Ah, the young vicomte. I had rather hoped you would join us."

And then Christine realized what had caused her to feel so deadly cold: Créon was not wearing a bandage over his right eye anymore, and what had lain hidden under it, she could not bear to behold, but still her gaze was drawn towards it irresistibly. From the gasps she heard from behind her, she knew that it was the same for the others. Blackness, emptiness, a hole of night in Créon's head, and in its midst there burned a fire, a sparkling storm of shining yellow flame. Raoul had aimed his revolver at him, but now his usually so steady hand trembled and sank back down to his side. Frozen to the spot, all they could do was watch how Créon came towards them.

"So much like your companions of old, young Erik. Some women, too, I see, and all armed. Yes, you always liked those women best who knew how to wield a sword. And another foolish boy leading them into battle, like Tricur once did before your treason killed him and he fell victim to your own blade." A thin, cruel smile twisted his narrow lips. "Raoul de Chagny, Aeternus tells me. Very well, let me take a closer look at you, bothersome insect."

But the Phantom stepped to intercept him, blocking his way with his sabre. "Try to poke around in their heads just once," he announced quietly, his eyes blue flame among the deep, painted shadows in the eyeholes of the mask, "and you die."

"So you think it is as easy as that, do you?" Créon's gaze never left Raoul, who was trying to stand up straight defiantly, even though his knees seemed to want to buckle any minute.

But someone was behind him, holding him upright, Christine suddenly realized. Serge. The curly-haired stagehand stood his ground behind her fiancé, straight and tall, like a rock amid the unceasing beat of an ocean's wild waves. "He is just what you will believe he is," he said quietly, in barely more than a whisper, but in the silence which had ensued, his soft voice was clearly audible.

"Hear, hear," Créon mocked him, but Christine had not missed the brief evidence of fury passing over his sharp features. "Have you found yourself a wise man among the rabble, young Erik?"

"He sees through what others have built up," the Phantom said softly. "He looks deeper. He sees the truth."

Serge nodded, as if he had just received the answer to a question long pondered. "That time I met you," he murmured, "up in the flies."

And equally softly, the Phantom replied, "You saw the man, then. Not the monster." Even if it had not been for the gentle moment of warmth passing through his awareness, Christine would have known how much that must have meant to him.

"Buying yourself time is useless," Créon reminded him coldly.

"You are right." The Phantom had not lowered his weapon yet. "Raoul, give him your sabre. It is past time to end this for good."

"No," Créon said. "That was then. This is now."

Though it was hard to see if the Phantom's features shifted much above his lips when he wore his skull mask, Christine was positively sure that he grimaced. "What do you mean? Are you not ready to confront me, then? Has my little display earlier on scared you so?"

Créon laughed derisively. "Indeed not, young Erik, indeed not! It rather failed to impress me. For I suggest you put your sabre aside; you won't be needing it when we are matching mind against mind." He smiled then, and it was the ugliest smile Christine could possibly imagine, so cold, so cruel. "You always possessed a certain skill with a sword, but I wonder whether you have yet mastered a more subtle art of battle."

Christine's heart sank as she heard this. My God, is he ready for it? Can he do it at all? How can we know whether he knows how to fight Créon or not? How can _he_ know? Yes, she had practiced with him occasionally, far too rarely it seemed to her now, but was he able at all to truly fight Créon in this way?

Obviously the Phantom had his doubts, too, because he hesitated for a moment. "The battleground is mine," he then said. "I'm making the rules."

Upon hearing this, Créon merely sneered. "You have ceased making them the moment I entered your little kingdom, boy. Do not underestimate the powers of the King of the Catacombs." His thin, elegant eyebrows rose a fraction, making his high brow furrow. "And I could force you, you know." His tone was conversational, as if discussing an issue of polite small-talk. "If I now took over one of those minds – say, the young vicomte's for instance, or perhaps the lovely young girl's you can't quite hide your feelings for – what would you do? What could you do?"

"Kill you," the Phantom said simply. "Listen, I have an offer to make. Withdraw your servants to the other end of the hall, and my friends will remain by the door. Then it will be just the two of us. Otherwise, you might be losing some more of your men, apart from wasting time."

"Ah, so you are very confident, are you?" Créon's expression could be best considered a smirk, Christine thought. "Very well then." He gestured to the gypsies, and they all regrouped behind him, most of them scowling at the Phantom and his men and waving their cudgels and knifes threateningly. But there were not too many left now. Christine counted nine. Only nine. Of course, there might be some more hiding somewhere else, but their number was much diminished now.

"Same formation behind me," the Phantom said curtly, throwing his red cloak to Raoul, who caught it and threw it over his own shoulder for lack of anything else to do with it. "Gaston, Leclair, watch the door. Stay where you are, and only get involved if _they_ do." Then he turned to face Créon once more, and Christine knew that he would play by his enemy's rules now.

They should not have come, she realized. Their presence was only making him vulnerable.

Standing about ten feet apart, the two opponents were watching each other warily, one figure in black, one figure in red, and the tension in the air was practically tangible now, causing a knot to form in Christine's stomach. Reaching out to the Phantom mentally, she lightly touched his awareness, imagining to gently run her forefinger down his spine. It would give him not only courage, but strength, she knew. _I love you, my Angel_, she whispered to him, though she knew he did not want to be called an angel anymore. But would hearing it from her not give him confidence?

Maybe she was just imagining it, but it seemed to her that he stood even straighter now, even taller, and in her mind she could feel how he suddenly radiated a power she had not felt before.

She would remain connected to him, she decided, touching the boundaries of his mind, though perhaps it was a risk for herself. But she would know what Créon was doing if she did, and if he harmed him in any way… then they _would_ get involved, no matter what the Phantom wanted them to do. Créon was not hurting her Angel of Music, not if she could help it!

Glancing sideways at Meg, who had taken the place at her other side now, she saw that her best friend's expression was grim, no, fierce even, and that she looked very much as if she were about to launch herself at Créon's throat any moment and tear it out. No, Christine was not alone, indeed not. That Raoul would fight she knew, and so would Gaston, and most probably Serge. Even if Xavier, Marie and Leclair should choose not to get involved when need arose, there would be five of them Créon would have to answer to.

Strangely, she did not feel very brave as she thought so. Only very furious. And very fond of her Erik.

"You ought to be afraid, young Erik," Créon rumbled.

The Phantom's clear voice, dripping with disdain, filled the hall easily. "You wish."

And then a battle began of which Christine had never seen the like. Créon attacked, she could feel him do it, a tentacle of darkness lashing out for the Phantom, but before it reached him, it caught fire and burned to ashes in a moment, destroyed by the screaming furnaces of hatred inside the Phantom's head. Fire, oceans of fire. Like a flood they were coming towards Créon, about to consume him, but suddenly there was a dam holding them, and the waves broke and seemed to crumble into dust. More tentacles came, more floods of fire, but again and again they were blocked before they even reached their target.

No doubt, they both had found their match at last.

Even as Christine began to believe that this all would last for hours and hours, their tactics suddenly changed, or at least she was seeing something different now. While they fought for control over each other's mind, locked in deadly combat even though they were standing a good distance apart, images began to flash up and disappear again, some only very brief, some nothing but momentary flashes of light, but some very clear, and equally strange. A pair of white towers, gleaming in the sun. A gathering storm. Ravens circling a burning turret. The Phantom himself, as it seemed, apparently seen through the eyes of another, unmasked and unscarred and with rather longer hair than he really had, but still he was easy enough to recognize, even when launching into a ferocious attack wielding a sword. Again the towers, though now burning. Her own face. And then what seemed to be a bright, ornate torch of gold.

And for some reason, the Phantom winced at that, and Créon laughed. "Do you remember what dying feels like, then?" he jeered. "But if you don't, it doesn't matter, for you will soon be repeating the experience."

At first the Phantom made no answer, but then the flood of images suddenly ceased. "Keep you damn eye's viewings to yourself," he snarled.

So those pictures came from that hideous, yellow-centred hole of darkness? Christine had no idea what exactly the Phantom had done, and she suspected he did not quite know himself, but at least he had made them stop.

Though only at first. They returned, flashing up and winking out again, but this time, Christine did her best to ignore them, as she was sure the Phantom did. Créon was only trying to distract his opponent.

Was he tiring then, perhaps? Christine wondered, and hoped very much that this was the answer. Yet still Créon's attacks were not growing weaker. Once he seemed to try to throw a net of material darkness over the Phantom, yet the Phantom slashed at it with what looked like the image of a sword, and fragments of Créon's cunning device were showering to the floor, dissolving into nothingness before they touched the ground. No, she had to admit to herself, Créon was not growing weaker, quite the contrary. It rather seemed to her that he was growing stronger. Even as she watched, the tendrils of shadow were pushing the tongues of flame back, coming towards the Phantom, closer, ever closer…

But still he was confident. Still he was calm. Under strain, yes, but calm, just as calm as they said the heart of the storm was, whatever that was supposed to mean. Christine had wondered about it before, and never had she found a satisfying explanation, but now it just came to her mind, and it fit. Her Erik was the heart of the storm.

And he would rip Créon to a thousand shreds, she was sure he would, if Créon made just one little mistake...

Don't give up, Erik. Don't give up.

And still the tendrils were approaching him… Why didn't he do something? She knew he could! Did he really have to make it that dramatic? He just let them come towards him, it seemed, watching, waiting… And still he was so calm, tense but calm. Good God, Erik, what are you doing there?

And then they touched him, enshrouded him… and slid into his mind. Still connected with him, Christine could feel them, and she froze with shock, while a sudden wave of nausea took her. The tendrils were there, inside his head, and they were beginning to spread out –

And then, very suddenly, they were somehow trapped where they were, how she did not understand, and he was inside Créon's head just as well, at the edge of the outlying regions, and Créon was trying to push him out while at the same time fighting to maintain what control he already had, but the Phantom held on while pushing at Créon himself – just like a pair of dogs bitten into each other who would not let go.

Still they stood apart, facing each other, but at the same time it seemed to Christine that they were rolling around on the floor together, scratching and biting. There were flashes of light now and rolls of thunder only she could hear, apart from them, and still images were flashing up, their frequency heightening rapidly now, so that they became indistinguishable. The feeling of nausea wavered and was gone, then returned again, and she realized that it came from Créon. What did the Phantom give him in return? She could not tell, though she was certain he was fighting back.

Both had established a more or less firm hold on each other now, and the firmer it grew, the steadier the images became. More and more they were substituting reality for a fleeting moment, changing the way she perceived her surroundings suddenly and just as suddenly changing back. At once Créon was wearing flowing robes of white instead of black, embroidered and belted in gold, and a magnificent purple cloak lined in gold as well, then her vision sprang back to reality, but before it had reasserted itself, he was already wearing white again, and the vast, brazier-lit underground hall faded to make way for a magnificent hall of blue-veined marble, the walls set with mirrors and ornamented in gold. And there was the Phantom, wearing simple black and with his hair down a little over his collar, facing him. Then the background changed to a stone hall lit by a crackling fire in a wide chimney behind Créon, but the two combatants stayed the same, only that a sword had appeared on the Phantom's hip now, and that he was resting his left hand on the hilt lazily.

They dug deeper into each other's mind, all the time lashing out at each other as they did so. And now they were slowly, but steadily moving towards each other, their surroundings once again changing as they went. Storm tore at their long dark hair, and then they walked on fire, only to balance over slippery rocks in a wild river the next moment, and nothing could change their pace. Through clouds they strode, walking on thin air, and then through a star-strewn sky, like a blanket of black velvet set with myriads of brilliant diamonds. An unearthly wind came up, howling around them, and slowly a second layer of vision became stronger even as the wind increased, all drawn in black and white and many shades of grey, a world of light and shadows. Instinctively Christine felt that this must be what Créon's second eye perceived, the one usually so well covered. Had the Phantom been suppressing it earlier on? It appeared he had, but as he was boring deeper into Créon's mind, he could not keep up his grasp on it any longer.

And still her vision changed. All at once the Phantom's steps shook the ground, while he walked with his head in the clouds, crowned with fire and ice, and Créon became a figure of light and shadow ahead, a turmoil of raging storm clouds with lightning flashing and flaring all around him. They were deep inside each other's minds now, giving up all hope of defence for speed, their goal to outrace the other and reach his core of life first. By now they were a mere two feet from each other and still coming closer, and the world was blurring, fading to dancing patches and specks of light and shadow, their outlines dark, steady forms in a hail of light.

And Christine could feel the Phantom reach out for the source of life in Créon, even as Créon was lunging for the same in him, that pulsing stream of liquid light Christine remembered so well. They were lashing out at each other with ferocity still; a feeling of stabbing, searing, burning pain was flashing in and out of her awareness, making her dizzy. And then they had reached each other, grabbing hold of each other –

The darkness raged, the storm screamed with many voices –

The pain was continual now, and becoming unbearable –

She felt the world around her crumble as all that was left of it, that mad feeling of pain beyond pain, took hold of her. At once she lost all knowledge of whether she was lying or standing, where she was at all, where up was and where down. The world was shattered into a million fragments of darkness, boring into her skin, tearing it away…

And still Créon was going downwards, while it seemed that the Phantom was losing hold, drifting away and drowning in an ocean of pain…

And then at once she knew what she had to do. It was quite simple, the simplest thing in the world. Even as she thought so, her vision cleared a little, and she could feel the Phantom clearly, just as she could feel Créon through him. Reaching out, she tried to fully enter his mind… and suddenly realized that there was no way to do that.

In some way she could not understand, she had become part of him, an extension of his own mind.

The feeling of Créon was very clear now, and worse than the feeling of pain, as one of his feelers brushed against the most vulnerable place –

The image formed in her head before she truly knew what she was doing: a needle, small and thin, but sharp, very sharp. Without taking aim, she forcefully thrust it into the blotch of awareness that was Créon.

Créon faltered, distracted, and lashed out all around him, not knowing from where the new attack had come so suddenly. There was a new burning torrent of pain as his counterattack hit the Phantom, but then it faded to nothingness as the Phantom suddenly took hold of that pulsing, humming cord of liquid light inside him.

Christine's vision cleared, and again there were two figures in a star-strewn sky, though now one – Créon – was kneeling before the other. And then a voice filled her awareness, stroking it gently where the pain had burned her insides. "Maybe you were right after all," the Phantom said. "Some things never change." And then he yanked the cord out.

The stars faded as he fell, and at the same time the Phantom became a clearer shape, turning towards her, and she saw that he wore no mask. His face was flawless, unmarred by scars of any kind, framed by lightly curled dark hair hanging down to his shoulders. It seemed that he was clothed in black leather, with some kind of leather breastplate set with iron strapped over it, and again he wore a sword on his belt, while on his right side dangled a number of small objects, all held on thin leather cords… But before she could identify any of them, the image faded, finally yielding to the underground hall where this all had begun, and the Phantom was in his Red Death costume once more. Still upright, though staggering, while Créon was lying before his feet… dead.

It was over now. It all was over.

Only then she realized that Raoul had put an arm around her shoulders, and she smiled, grateful for his help to keep her on her feet. But as the Phantom came towards her, she gently loosened his grip on her. He would understand.

There were no words to express what she was feeling now. All she did was wrap her arms around him tightly, and he caught her in his embrace in turn. He was alive. Her Erik was alive. At the moment, nothing else mattered.

"_Confutatis__ maledictis_," Raoul muttered behind her, "_flammis__ acribus addictis_…"

And then a shape dispatched itself from the shadows and approached them swiftly, and both she and the Phantom let go of each other to face it. Christine did not recognize the man, though she was certain she had seen him before, but in the Phantom's mind, there was a name for him: _Aeternus_.

For a moment the flow of time seemed to cease as the last remaining of the Lost Ones stood facing the Phantom. Then he dropped to one knee and lowered his head. "_Voca__ me cum benedictis_," he said.


	78. IX You've always known

**IX. You've always known**

Taut silence descended; all eyes were on Aeternus's kneeling form. Only the Phantom realized that he had not come alone – the familiar shapes of Lászlo and Sándor were there beneath the arch, each on one side, painted red by the light of the lantern, no doubt on Aeternus's order to stay where they were. Had he wanted them to follow him, they surely would have, and even though the Phantom had assigned Gaston and Leclair to watch the door, they would not have held them up. After all, Aeternus had used his powers on them. Still they were not facing the door, as they were supposed to be, but watching Aeternus.

Everybody was. The few servants did so as well, uncertain what to do.

If they moved, those damn gypsies, he would kill them, the Phantom thought. After all, he knew an easy way to kill now.

"_Oro__ supplex et acclinis_," Aeternus continued softly, with the same clear, clipped pronunciation as he would give his name in, exactly as the words were written; not a common way for a Frenchman to pronounce anything Latin. "_Cor__ contritum quasi cinis_." Still his head was lowered, and the Phantom could feel that he was withdrawing what little powers he had been employing when entering. Yes, Gaston and Leclair were turning towards the entrance again. And so softly that it was almost inaudible, he concluded, "_Gere__ curam mei finis_."

Well, that man apparently knew his Latin.

And it also revealed something about him that the Phantom realized only now. "You're German, aren't you?" But he knew the answer already.

Aeternus did not raise his head. "Prussian."

So he had been right about him. The Phantom smiled. Strange that such a small triumph could please him so, after this great battle and at last his victory over his worst enemy.

Aeternus would provide no difficulty now… or would he? After all, Aeternus was different, in some strange way. And there were some questions about him which strongly called for answers.

But before he could form any question, Aeternus called out to the servants, "Hail the Phantom, the new King of the Catacombs!"

Most of them dropped down to their knees straight away, some with their faces in the dust, and those who hesitated at first followed the others' example quickly enough. Almost half of them were women, the Phantom noticed as he glanced at them without true interest. Had he really killed most of the men, then?

The new King of the Catacombs.

"They are yours," Aeternus said. "They will obey you. Command them."

Was this what they expected of him? Very well, then. There was only one thing he wanted them to do. "Go, you filthy slaves," he told them. "Go, leave this city, and never come back."

He was showing them mercy, he thought as he watched them scramble to their feet and approach the exit hesitantly, splitting up into two groups which both kept as close to either wall as possible, avoiding the Phantom and his men as good as they could on their way past them. He could have killed them. No, he should have, and if only because they were gypsies. How he hated them, those filthy half-breeds, that folk of thieves and thugs who had tormented him so much in his childhood! But they were helpless against him, and he could not just slaughter them with Christine watching. She would never approve.

Besides, would killing them really make him feel better? He doubted it would. Maybe the wild lust for blood would capture and intoxicate him for a few fleeting moments, but then, when he returned to reality, nothing would remain, nothing but bitterness for not being able to undo what fate had made him face, and what he still was facing. There was no sense in it, and no satisfaction.

Soon the last of them had passed the archway flanked by the sculpted pair of angels, more running then walking, and their steps faded away as they headed towards the entrance to the sewers, just as the Phantom had expected they would. He could still feel them clearly, but soon they would have left his territory, left it forever.

And then he would have his peace again.

Yes, but what else? What would he do then? He was a hunted man, after all; Créon had not been the only one to hunt him. And Christine had rejected him.

He had won, but there was nothing left for him in this world, nothing at all. Of what use was such a victory?

To be exact, there were the Girys, Claire and Meg, but what did they really matter, compared to his love? His world was so empty when Christine was not there.

At his feet, Aeternus stirred slightly, just as if to draw the Phantom's attention back to him. Hell devour him alive, why was he still there? Why could he not have gone together with those gypsy slaves? The Phantom's first thought was to do the same with him as he had just done with Créon, now he knew how to do it – and it had been so obvious, why had he not realized it earlier on, when dealing with Adhemar? – but there were still a few questions he needed to put to him.

"You helped me."

Aeternus inclined his head slightly. "I did."

Yes, but never as much as Christine helped me. The Phantom had to fight off a strong desire to grasp her around her slender waist and pull her into his arms once more, overcome by gratefulness and love towards her. "Why?" he demanded instead, more gruffly than he had intended to.

For the first time Aeternus raised his head, though only very slightly, so that he was regarding the Phantom's high black boots now, instead of the dusty ground before his feet. Somehow it seemed that he avoided the Phantom's eyes so clearly not of fear to be read, but of politeness, of demonstrated submission. "I cannot get involved myself," he answered simply.

The Phantom mustered him, his eyebrows slightly raised to signal his answer had not been quite clear, but Aeternus chose not to specify, and since he did not look up at all, there was no sense in it anyway. Curse the man, he would have to be more blunt then. "Why? And get up, damn you," he added. The next time Aeternus might catch his hints when he faced him properly.

Moreover, while he kneeled, Aeternus had an excuse not to look him in the eyes. If he stood opposite him and still had to avert his gaze, wouldn't that be a lot more humiliating?

Yes, show them their place, a voice inside him hissed. Teach them all. As long as any of them lives, you can never stop fighting them.

But this was the last one left. And for some reasons of his own, that last Lost One had helped him. That bought him a bit of time before he, too, was sent to Hell.

Inside the Phantom's chest an angry furnace roared, shooting sparks up to his throat, making his mouth go dry.

Slowly Aeternus rose to his feet, and slowly he pulled off the one black glove he wore, his own personal kind of mask. The Phantom knew what to expect, and he did not even blink as Aeternus held up his shrivelled, blackened right hand into the firelight. And still he did not meet the Phantom's gaze, but looked at his crippled hand instead. "At the time when the world of old ended," he said softly, "when you and Créon and all of the others got their scars they would be branded with forever, I, too, was fighting for the fate of a realm which would not last any longer. But I never was like you, nor was I like Créon. Both of you were mighty men, destined to change the world and be remembered by many generations to come, but I was the Listener." He moved his skeletal fingers as he spoke, bending them and stretching them again, and the Phantom could feel Christine shudder slightly at the back of his mind. "I watched, and I remembered. But never did I act. As the Conspiracy of the Shadow was brewing, I joined the Herald of Fate, because I had foreseen the downfall of the Old Order, and I was with him as he prepared to take the Realm of the Divine with fire and sword. But I did not participate, because I was not meant to. Until the moment came when I grew bold. But even as I crossed blades with another, the sword fell from my hand, and as I was watching, my hand burned and shrivelled to a skeleton's."

As he had ended his tale, silence spread, only broken by the gentle crackling of the flames on the braziers. But they, too, were fading, the Phantom saw. They were burning down, and already the hall was darker, the shadows in the corners waxing slowly, soon to resume their rightful place once more.

So ended the reign of the King of the Catacombs.

And there would be no more King of the Catacombs, never again.

Yes, the Phantom thought, resting his hand on the hilt of his sabre as he watched the dying flames, there are no myths of kings and gods and Lost Ones. There is just me. "I'm sick of all your fairytales," he said coldly. "Find somebody else who will believe you."

And then Aeternus looked at him directly, and he smiled. And as their gazes met, mist swirled up before the Phantom's eyes. "You are too young yet to remember," he said quietly, "but you are strong. Soon you will. Yet many a year will pass until it all comes back to you. Even Créon, who was our Master, did not know everything, even though he is old enough to have seen two centuries pass." Then his smile broadened. "He kept referring to the War of the Shadow as the Second War of the Powers," he murmured, as if to himself. "It was rather annoying, really."

Should he break down Aeternus's defences and twist his senses into true madness for these accursed lies? No, it was not worth the trouble. "Don't tell me Créon was two hundred years old!" he snapped. "If all you have to tell me are stories like this, then save your breath, for I'm not going to believe you. Besides, that old man, that Bertrand, claimed he was about a hundred and seventy, and Créon looked not nearly as old as Bertrand did!"

"Yes, but Bertrand was less gifted, less mighty than him," Aeternus answered calmly, heedless of the incredulous murmurs behind him. "The stronger one of our kind is, the longer he lives. We grow up like anyone else, if maybe a little slower, but then we stop changing, and only many decades will do what a single year sometimes does to a common man."

True enough, the Phantom had to admit to himself. After all, he should have looked a lot older than he did himself. But two hundred years? How could anyone be two hundred years old?

How old had Niobe been, and Adhemar?

And how old would he become himself before he finally left this hateful world?

"You know it, don't you?" Still Aeternus was smiling gently. "No, don't deny it. Don't deny anything. I don't intend to quarrel with you. The time has not yet come for you to remember, but eventually you will, and then I'll be glad to tell you the rest of the stories. After all, we have all the time in the world."

He did not want to ask. No, indeed he did not. But he was ashamed to admit to himself that his curiosity got the better of him. "Aeternus... how old are you, exactly?"

"Four hundred and fifty-six in March." Aeternus laughed, just like one would laugh at an amusing joke. "It's been quite a life." And once again he ignored all the gasps and whispers from the Phantom's companions.

"Bloody Hell!" Raoul exclaimed. "Man, if you're not boasting, you must remember how Columbus sailed to America!"

"I do, vicomte," Aeternus replied. "That and many a thing more."

"Bloody Hell," Meg repeated, and the Phantom almost grinned at the idea of what her mother would have to say to this. "Hey, don't you get pretty confused when you're so old?"

"No," Aeternus laughed, and the Phantom was surprised that he seemed not annoyed at the slightest at the girl's comment. "Everything becomes clearer to me, that's all. And I remember more with every day. My past lives, too, or at least the most recent ones."

The Phantom wanted to tell him to hold his accursed tongue, but now he had captured his companions' interest. "Past lives?" Xavier asked, excited. "Hah! I knew people get reborn all over again! Told you!" And he poked out his tongue at Marie.

"I'm not sure about common people," Aeternus answered. "But we do. This is our fate. Our curse. We are denied our place in the world, condemned forever to fight for it, to search for it and never find it. The last time I was born in 586, and I died in 1163, if I remember that correctly, though I was murdered, so it hardly counts." He grinned, clearly amused at his audience's expressions. "I couldn't quite tell you the dates from the time before, but it was in Roman times, that much I know. I used to be an aide to Caesar once, even. That's also where I got my name."

Of course. Why had the Phantom not seen it before? Aeternus. The eternal one.

"Not that my memories are as clear as they might be," Aeternus continued conversationally, "since there are images mostly, but also thoughts and feelings. And there are the records I make for myself, of course. My little secret."

"Ah, very clever," the Phantom muttered. He was so sick of it, so sick of it all. All he wanted was to return to his dark grotto and be alone, and to sleep for many hours, hoping to forget all that had occurred, all he had seen. And maybe then he would wake up and realize that it all had been nothing but a bad dream, that there were no Lost Ones, and that Christine was still there, that he had another chance...

"But I don't intend to keep you long," Aeternus said, serious once more. "Lászlo, is everything ready? We'll be departing for Bavaria today."

"Yes, my Lord," came the reply from the entrance. "We are ready to go."

"Excellent." Pulling his glove back on, Aeternus nodded to the assembled, ready to go. "I was honoured to make your acquaintance, Phantom." Then his lips suddenly formed a little smile again, making his neatly trimmed moustache and short goatee shift very slightly. "Strange how history repeats itself. Back in the old days, they called you Wraith." And then he left, without another glance, heading towards the door.

"Wait," the Phantom said sharply, and Aeternus halted, though he did not turn around. "Why were you with Créon? What was really in it for you?"

For a moment Aeternus was silent, as if he were pondering the question, then at last he replied, "We'll speak about it later, my friend, when the time for it has come."

"So I'll be seeing you again." It was no question; if Aeternus said they would, the Phantom somehow felt they would.

"Yes, I think we will. And sooner than you might expect." He paused, bathed in the dying light of the red lantern. "Until then, keep in mind who you are, and what you are. You've always known you were special, haven't you? Not a monster, but special. Until I return, remember that." Then he waved to his pair of fair-haired retainers, and they passed through the arch, through the light now too dim to seem like blood anymore, only a strange red glow originating from a lantern, and were gone.

"Bloody Hell," Raoul muttered. "Now that was odd, the oddest thing I saw in some time, though your duel, or whatever it was, was a strange enough thing in itself. You two just standing opposite each other, glaring… The weirdest day of my life. Or what d'you say, Erik?"

The Phantom shrugged. Only now he felt how tired he was. Too tired to harm Aeternus. Too tired even to remind Raoul that he was not Erik to him.


	79. X Let the Dream begin

**X. Let the Dream begin**

Slowly but steadily, spring came to the land. The thick blanket of snow melted away, leaving the streets wet and muddy for a week, and instead the first shots of green appeared on the bushes and trees as the days grew warmer.

And slowly but steadily, the damage done to the auditorium and stage was repaired. Before long, the managers announced to the cheering singers, chorus, ballet and stagehands and all the many other workers that the preparations for a new production were about to begin. Christine knew what it was going to be, and she was not surprised when she was offered the female lead, the role of Senta. Neither was she surprised that Carlotta seemed to have disappeared on a long holiday. The offence Créon had obviously caused her, as by now everybody knew, had just been too much for her, combined with the loss of her long-time partner, Piangi.

Soon the Opera House was back to normal again, apart from the auditorium still being repaired. As always, the backstage area bustled like a beehive, and in the orchestra pit, Maestro Reyer fought to keep his still unsteady and rather erratic charges under control. Chorus and ballet practised just as hard as usual – Madame Giry was never seen without her slender cane these days – while the singers learned their parts. The workshops behind the stage were busy putting together a pair of vast ships, among other things, while the legion of seamstresses and wigmakers worked hard to finish the costumes in time.

This time, something was different, though: The Phantom was always there, and not invisible any longer. One time he was on stage, another time watching from the auditorium, and occasionally he would appear in Box Five, quite openly, and supervise the progressing work from there. Christine's colleagues watched him with unease, and whenever he came on stage, ballet and chorus scattered screaming, but slowly they seemed to be getting used to his presence. And once he came to play his part, the busy bustling suddenly died down, and all left what they had been doing to stand entranced and listen to his angelic voice.

Even the policemen did. The Opera House was full of them, and some trailed after the Phantom all day. Christine begged him to keep his temper, which he did, though she could feel his constant anger, and although she tried, it was practically impossible to soothe him.

Except when he went through her part with her. It was the only time when he seemed content, and when his annoyance diminished or sometimes faded away completely. After some discussion, the chief of police, who happened to be a close acquaintance of Raoul's father, had agreed to leave them alone at least during her lessons, as long as her fiancé was with them. Grumbling, the Phantom had admitted Raoul. He would have preferred to be alone with her, of course, but he rather accepted Raoul than the police. And Christine was glad he did, because after what had happened earlier on, after his attempts to make her his alone, she still was reluctant to be on her own with him. Maybe she could get used to him again, especially since he was as gentle and kind as he had never been before – even though he had never been harsh with her – but she was not ready yet to be alone with him when they were singing together. Not yet.

She was glad for his tuition, though, because her part was not easy at all. At least Senta did not appear throughout the first act, which was left to her father, Captain Daland, and the Dutchman himself, but what she had to learn for the other two acts was rather extensive. They began with her aria, then came the great duet with the Dutchman, and the Phantom angrily muttered about the Dutchman being a baritone. Otherwise, he would have played the lead himself, no doubt, and he would surely have done well as the dark, mysterious stranger of whom many sailor legends spoke.

This way, he was Erik. At first Christine had found this coincidence amusing, that he should share his name with the young hunter from Wagner's opera. But then Madame Giry had told her that this indeed was where he had gotten the name from, and at the same time Christine realized that it was no laughing matter at all. Erik was Senta's fiancé, and yet she left him to offer the Dutchman's tormented soul redemption, and with her sacrifice she lifted the cruel curse laid upon him and allowed him to pass into Heaven, leaving Erik behind alone.

The Phantom never spoke about it, and Christine did not dare to mention it, but from time to time, whenever they worked on her two duets with the hunter, she could feel the small, hard knot of bitterness at the back of her head, the bitterness that was his.

Raoul saw it too, but he did not comment on it. Altogether, he kept very quiet, and so did the dog, which he had brought along and which had grown considerably since he had first taken it in. Raoul had decided to call his new pet Senta. Strangely, the Phantom never objected to the animal's presence; quite the contrary, he seemed to appreciate it. Soon Senta developed the habit of sitting at his feet with her head laid back and listening while he sang, and he often rested his hand on her head.

Of course, there was many a tiring interrogation with polite, yet rather persistent police officers to face, and Christine and Raoul spent hours answering all kinds of questions about the Phantom and the matter of the Lost Ones. To Christine's surprise, Raoul did not accuse the Phantom of murder or any other kind of crime, but testified instead that he must have acted under Créon's influence earlier on already, just as many witnesses could conform Créon had told them, because despite his sometimes rather rough nature he had never harmed him since he had thrown Créon out of his mind. Yet as she wanted to thank him for it, he waved it away, his expression suddenly pained, and asked her not to speak about it. Raoul's conscience was going through a serious conflict, that much she could easily recognize, but there was nothing she could do for him, apart from showing him love and affection, as she always did.

The Phantom was troubled by other things. He knew that he was forced to cooperate with the officers if he did not want to have to flee the city, if not the entire country, but all the same he hated it, and what he loathed most was to lay open his powers to them, and the way they stared at him like at a dangerous animal when he did so. At least the chief of police realized that soon enough, and from then on he mostly saw him alone, but the Phantom's mood was improved only very slightly by it. And in Christine's dreams the images of his own appeared, the cage of his nightmares. But he never spoke about it, and she did not dare to bring up the topic.

After one of these private interrogations, he returned to the Opera House in a towering temper. They all met in Madame Giry's little apartment, he and Christine and Meg and Raoul, as well as Meg's mother, and after some urging he at last told them that he had spent the last three hours being examined very thoroughly by one of the police's own physicians. "They finished examining all the bodies now," he said, "and do you have any idea what they found? Lionel's fangs were poisonous, and Ferox had some kind of additional joint in his arm or something, I'm not quite sure. All the city's scientists are in an uproar," he added grimly, "and they were only too eager to get one of those sensations still alive."

Immediately the image of the cage returned to Christine, and even if that examination had not been unfriendly, she understood his anger, his pain.

"What did they say about Créon's eye?" Raoul inquired eagerly.

The Phantom's lips thinned to a sharp line. "They say it must have been blind," he answered harshly, then turned away and walked over to the window, where he remained for some time.

And Christine knew how much he wished it truly had been so.

Late in the same evening, when Christine was about to leave the Opera House at last, ready to take the coach her fiancé had already had prepared, and when she passed the backstage area, she suddenly heard the gentle, haunting sound of his voice, and she stopped to listen.

"_Dich frage ich, gepries'ner Engel Gottes,  
Der meines Heils Bedingung mir gewann:  
War ich Unsel'ger Spielwerk deines Spottes,  
Als die Erlösung du mir zeigtest an?  
Vergeb'ne Hoffnung! Furchtbar eitler Wahn!  
Um ew'ge Treu' auf Erden – ist's getan!_"

Shivering involuntarily, Christine realized what he was singing there: It was part of the Flying Dutchman's aria from the first act, from his lonely monologue of black despair. And as she listened to his voice, she felt that her colleague who played the part, however talented he might be, never yet had managed to capture so much pain and bitterness in those lines.

Was this the reason why he had wanted this particular opera performed, she wondered, because he saw himself in the character of the phantom seaman, cursed for all of eternity unless he would find a woman ready to remain faithful to him until death?

He should have played the part himself, and all the audience would have understood the grief and despair of the character, as well as perhaps his own. But he could not. The part was written for low baritone, and he was a tenor.

What irony of a cruel fate that he had been given the heroes' and lovers' voice!

"_Nur eine Hoffnung soll mir bleiben,  
Nur eine unerschüttert steh'n:  
So lang der Erde Keime treiben,  
So muss sie doch zugrunde geh'n.  
Tag des Gerichtes! Jüngster Tag!  
Wann brichst du an in meine Nacht?  
Wann dröhnt er, der Vernichtungsschlag,  
Mit dem die Welt zusammenkracht?  
Wann alle Toten aufersteh'n,  
Dann werde ich im Nichts vergeh'n.  
Ihr Welten, endet euren Lauf!  
Ew'ge Vernichtung, nimm mich auf!_"

Christine stood transfixed as he fell silent, waiting for him to come towards her, for surely he could sense her, sense that she was near, but she felt his presence diminish and fade as he walked away towards his dark, lonely cellars, leaving her with a feeling of emptiness.

The next day found him jolly and playful again, fooling around with Meg after rehearsals, but still Christine could sense a shadow over him, a small seed of darkness lingering, ready to grow when it was fed once more.

He had not believed Créon, but did he believe Aeternus? She could not tell, and after last night, she did not dare to ask.

There was so much between them left unspoken.

As the time of the Opera Populaire's reopening approached, the Phantom grew tense and restless more and more, as did the conductor, and once the fury of both of them was directed at Leclair, who was obviously playing wrong notes constantly. Luckily there were officers in the auditorium, or else the Phantom might well have gotten rid of his tension, a coiled-up spring at the back of Christine's head, by ripping the lazy violinist to shreds. This way, he only snarled at him. And at least Leclair possessed the politeness to be embarrassed at his own lack of working morale.

Christine was glad that Raoul's parents apparently had decided to visit relatives in La Rochelle, for confronting them right now, so short before the performance, would only have made her nervousness increase to unbearable heights. This way, the idea of having to introduce them to the concept of having her as a daughter-in-law was nothing but a distant feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach, easily swallowed by other worries, especially the one about making mistakes on the opening night.

The week before the great premiere, she almost wished she were back with her friends from the ballet, who were merrily swirling across the stage dressed as sailors and village girls, laughing and filled with happy excitement about the coming performance.

And then at last the Phantom's costume was finished. He was the last to get it, since the costume department had not been pleased at all to hear that they would need to equip him as well, unlike Carlotta and Piangi and other major cast members, who always brought their own, and most of the poor young girls working for the department had been too scared to come even close to the Phantom, but finally it was there too, and he could try it on, with half the chorus and ballet waiting nearby, cautious yet curious. And as he came strutting out all in green, in close-fitting coat and breeches and with a green cap with a red feather in it perched lopsided atop his head, dagger and quiver on his belt and with his bow over his shoulder, and only his white mask seeming a little out of place, there came some excited little giggles from the assembled girls, and for the first time in a while, Christine saw his little smirk again.

Meg said he looked dashing and gave him a delighted hug. Raoul said he looked like Robin Hood and nudged him in the ribs. Christine said nothing at all, but merely smiled at him. Yes, this could well be her fiancé, her childhood sweetheart. Somehow he reminded her very much of Raoul suddenly.

Senta the dog said nothing either, but she decided to accompany him onto the stage, and she refused to be removed from it again. Since she was surprisingly well-behaved, Raoul found that they might well let her. After all, a hunter needed a dog. But Christine had already agreed long before he had, because she was sure the Phantom had tampered with the dog's mind a little to make her follow him so quietly and obediently and play her part so well, and she saw nothing wrong with it. As the Phantom made his first appearance in the second act, the chorus and ballet girls still scattered and could not quite be persuaded to remain at their places, but when he came charging in with the dog, which raced straight towards Christine and greeted her with much prancing and wagging, but luckily – and certainly due to the Phantom's manipulative skills – no barking, the scattering even seemed realistic. And after all, the audience had always liked to see animals on stage.

And then the evening of the performance was there. Foyer and auditorium gleamed anew, and excitement flooded the corridors and backstage passages as everybody waited for the curtain to go up and the opera to begin. Xavier was even noisier than usual, and Leclair turned up to inform the Phantom that he had practised all afternoon. And then Meg came racing towards where they stood in a small group, panting and with her face flushed. "It's a full house!" she gasped between gulping down large mouthfuls of air. "A full house!"

"Well, seems all the recent rumours have made the people curious once again," Raoul stated, tugging at his cravat. With the Phantom's permission, he was going to sit in Box Five again tonight.

"The emperor is there!" Meg continued, bouncing up and down with delight like she had not done for quite a long time now. "And the empress! And a huge lot of fancy-looking nobility!"

"Now, now, don't get overexcited." Madame Giry had joined them, poking her daughter gently with her slender cane. "Everybody, take your places. Yes, vicomte, that includes you. Leclair, off to the pit, and mind what you're playing tonight, or else you'll have your ears boxed. Xavier, one more squeal and I'll have you wear a skirt. You're so pale, Christine, dear, wouldn't you like a glass of water? Oh, and somebody calm down that dog!"

As everybody hustled towards where they were supposed to be, she poked the Phantom in the chest and gave him a stern look. "And you, don't you even think of trying anything funny, with everybody watching, do you hear me?" But then her gaze softened, and suddenly she pulled him into a tight hug, heedless of half the ensemble watching. "I'm so proud of you, Erik," she whispered.


	80. XI Night unfurls its Splendour

**XI. Night unfurls its Splendour**

It was the first truly warm night of the year, and only a few clouds stained the star-strewn night sky. Even the wind was more or less warm now, and it gently played with the Phantom's hair as he gazed down at the lights of the city, one hand resting on the balustrade, while the other thoughtlessly toyed with the hilt of his dagger. It had been Adhemar's once, but now it was his. Another trophy to add to his collection.

But even though the idea ought to fill him with triumph, it somehow didn't. Not with that memory of seeing that image of himself, or whoever it was supposed to be, still so clear and sharp in his head, with all those little trophies dangling from his belt.

No, not me. Not me.

Curse you, Aeternus. Why did you have to tell me?

He should have cracked the man's mind open and searched for the truth.

But could he have done that? Somehow he suspected that Aeternus was stronger than he had seemed, that he would have been able to fight back. And he had not done it.

I was tired, he told himself. Too tired for anything.

You damn coward, another voice hissed inside his head.

No! Not a coward! Never a coward! I fought, I fought them all, and I won.

And tonight I showed the whole world that I'm not afraid.

No, not afraid. Never afraid again. Not of humans, not of fate, not of memories.

Not of the picture on the wall of his home. The Pillars of Heaven.

Not of the face behind the mask.

There you are, you fool, he thought as he propped his bow against the balustrade beside him. Finally found out what you fear, haven't you?

What I used to fear. What I will not fear anymore.

Yes, because it's the one thing in the world I know best. The one thing only I truly know.

It's myself.

Snatching off his cap to allow the wind complete access to his hair – it had grown rather long during those last months, but somehow he was reluctant to cut it off – he threw back his head, gazing up at the stars defiantly. They were like luminous eyes staring down at him. Like the eyes of nameless gods dwelling beyond the skies. "Do you hear me?" he whispered. "It's just me, and I'm not afraid!"

Tonight was a night to remember. He might even keep the silly cap.

Oh, and it would be a dinner party tonight, the fop boy seemed to think. At a noble restaurant, though in a private room. Did the idiot not see the scandal coming if he accepted the invitation? Yes, certainly, the infamous Phantom of the Opera going out for dinner with the Vicomte de Chagny and his lot! Hell, the boy was stupid!

And he would be cursed if he did not go.

The Phantom grinned.

He felt her approaching long before he heard the door onto the roof open behind him, and he waited for her in silence, savouring the sensation of her coming closer – and enjoying the knowledge that she was searching for him by her feeling for him alone, for he had not told her where he had gone. But if she wanted to find him, he had known that she could.

The choice had been hers. And she had made it.

Suddenly there was a glorious warmth in his chest, very tender, but so much stronger than the fire his triumph had kindled.

And then he felt her hand briefly touch his arm, and for the moment his eyes slid shut as he allowed himself the luxury of drowning in her presence.

"They liked you," she said softly, now standing beside him, so close that her shoulder almost touched him, and letting her eyes wander over the ocean of lights beneath.

He smiled. "No. They liked _you_. And you were magnificent."

"_You_ were magnificent." As she breathed out, it sounded like a little sigh. "So magnificent that you almost made me cry."

Yes, he had seen the tears in her eyes at the end, in the scene where Senta left her young fiancé to sacrifice herself for the Dutchman. So it had been his fault, after all. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright." For a moment they both stood in silence, then her hand sought his on the balustrade. "You know, those lines in the end, about my father... Can you sing it again for me?"

He knew what she meant, and he wondered whether it had occurred to her the first time this evening... and whether that was what had made her cry. Taking her hand in his, he sang to her softly, very gently.

"_Gedenkst du, wie auf steilem Felsenriffe  
Vom Ufer wir den Vater scheiden sah'n?  
Er zog dahin auf weiß beschwingtem Schiffe  
Und meinem Schutz vertraute er dich an..._"

He stopped before he came to the lines about love, for he knew it would only make her feel guilty, and he did not want to hurt her in any way. Besides, she had never sworn to love him. Swallowing down his feeling of bitterness, he pulled her into his arms instead, drawing in the sweet, flowery scent of her hair. "I will always be there to protect you," he whispered. "Whatever happens. Whenever you need me. Always."

"So will I, Erik." Reaching up, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "Don't think I'm going to leave you."

"But you are." It had burst out of him before he could have bitten his tongue, and now he could not made it unsaid. "You'll get married," he explained. "That means you won't live here anymore. And that..." He did not want to say it, because maybe if he did not say it, some small irrational part of his mind believed, then maybe it would not be true... But no, he was just being foolish. It did not matter what he said. "That you won't sing anymore."

"I'm afraid I'm really going to leave," she answered slowly, and a little sadly, too. She would miss her old surroundings, the place that had been her home for many years. "But you'll still see me. And I can still sing for you, if you want me to."

"I do," he muttered, nuzzling his face into her hair. Why did he always have to feel like a silly little boy when he was with her? And why, why in the name of Satan, did he have to appreciate that stupid feeling?

He sensed that somebody was approaching, but he would not let Christine go. Not now. Not even when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me," Raoul said, "but in real life, that's _my _fiancée. So would you please be so kind and take your greedy paws off her?"

Behind him, Meg giggled gently, and a cold, wet nose brushed against the back of his thigh impatiently.

Now that was a challenge he could not just ignore. Letting go of Christine, though with regrets, he first applied a brief pat to Senta's furry head, then snatched Raoul by the collar and tousled his hair. "Were you talking to me, slimeball?"

"Yes, jerk. And get out of my hair."

"Now, now, boys," Meg giggled. "Are you fighting over poor Christine again? Good grief, Erik, you ought to get changed, or do you intend to go out with us in that costume? Though those trousers allow a pleasant view of your legs," she added slyly.

"Want to get an even better look?" he grinned. Oh, girls could be so much fun! "I can roll them up a little, if you like."

"We're grateful as long as you don't take them off," Raoul put in. "And show off those shocking, ahem, unmentionables of yours."

Immediately the girls burst into giggles.

Now that was a topic they liked, wasn't it? And to think that they claimed they were decent girls... The Phantom smirked. "Maybe I should, because I'm wearing the emerald ones tonight. To match my costume."

"Heavens!" Christine exclaimed. "I'm glad you didn't mention that earlier on, or else I might have had a laughing fit on stage!"

"Emerald?" Meg asked, grinning widely and in a way her mother certainly would not appreciate. "I've never yet seen _those_..."

"I really think we ought to be going," Raoul interrupted, though grinning as well. "Erik, man, hold your wicked tongue, or else you'll spoil those young ladies completely! Oh, by the way," he added with a conspiratorial wink, "where do you get those ballet tights?"

The Phantom raised his eyebrows at him. "Are you planning to join the ballet or what?"

"Well..." Raoul shuffled his feet, clearly a bit embarrassed. "You know, my mother always wants me to wear those horrible woolly underthings, those long ones, and they itch something dreadfully."

"I see." The Phantom smirked. Raoul in woolly, scratching underpants... One day that boy would have to learn to stand up to his mother.

As he surveyed the assembled, all of them, including the dog, as cheerful as they could be, he once again felt the warmth rising in his chest. He might be a fallen angel, and very far indeed from Heaven, but what did he care? This was as close to Heaven as anyone could get.

While the girls put their heads together, still giggling, Raoul gave him a gentle nudge in the ribs. "Hey there, Erik, how about _Il Muto _tomorrow? You still don't think you're going to sing, do you?"

"Of course not." Don Attilio was a role for somebody like Piangi, not for him. "I'll prefer to watch."

"Yes indeed." Raoul beamed. "Christine as the countess, Xavier as the page boy... It couldn't possibly get any better, now could it?"

"You forget Meg as the serving maid. She never fails to amuse me."

"Right, she too. Say, can I sit in Box Five with you? I'll bring a huge box of chocolates, and when Leclair is playing wrong notes, we'll chuck the wrappers into the orchestra pit." Raoul snickered with boyish delight at the very idea, though the Phantom knew that he was too polite to do any such thing.

So he wanted to sit with him? That silly fop? In his private box with him? But a huge box of chocolates... Maybe the prospect was not so bad. Grinning, he returned Raoul's nudge from earlier on. "Bloody brilliant, kid!"


End file.
